


The Twins of Shadow and Darkness

by ContraryToEverything



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Betrayal, Dark Magic, Drama, Family, Friendship, Gen, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:05:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 67,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10700415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContraryToEverything/pseuds/ContraryToEverything
Summary: Harry is split from his twin sister and has to find her again, all while trying to navigate the world of the newly risen Dark Lord.  Pre-Hogwarts.  Sequel to “The Feral Twins.”  Grey-Dark-Twins





	1. Chapter 1

_ Prologue _

 

Draco waited outside the tall double doors of the drawing room, his back leaning against the wall and his arms crossed in an effort to appear casual.  It was difficult when the decorative wood panelling pressed against his back, and he could feel his heart anxiously fluttering while his palms dampened with sweat.  But at least his face remained mostly expressionless (though he was trying to go for bored.)  At eight years old, his belief in his ability to project calm indifference was largely imaginary.  But he was a Malfoy, so his ability to look haughty was, at least, better than most.

 

But Draco had good reason to be anxious.  Behind those double doors was his best friend Harry, with the mysterious Dark Lord.  Thinking of the Dark Lord caused Draco to shiver, and he broke out of his casual position to rub his arms, as if trying to gather warmth.

 

Encountering the Dark Lord for the first time in that forest had not been what Draco was expecting.  That had been months ago, but Draco remembered it as if it were yesterday.  The mass of snakes entwined together to form some unholy abomination that was sickening in its very wrongness; the feeling of impending doom that saturated the air, both the visible darkness and the invisible magical disquiet; Harry’s, confidence turning to fear and confusion; Holly’s vacant eyes; and finally, Bellatrix’s horrible death at her own hands. 

 

But what stamped itself in Draco’s mind (besides intense worry for his best friend) was his impression of the Dark Lord, and how easily all his childhood imaginings had been swept away by the brutal and calloused hand of reality.  It was what he had nearly admitted to Harry, but under the crushing oppression of the moment, had been unable (or more accurately, too afraid) to articulate.

 

The truth was that all his life, Draco had been fed with messages of the Dark Lord’s greatness.  The man was as much myth as he was reality, and though most people in Wizarding Britain might have regarded Harry Potter as the hero of the tale, many pure-bloods saw the Dark Lord as the true hero. Certainly, Draco’s parents did, especially his father (and Draco idolized his father, though ‘idolized’ wasn’t the word that he, himself, would have used.)

 

The myth of Harry Potter was a fantastic one - one that Draco had secretly adored as a child.  That a mere baby could bring down a powerful Dark Lord hinted at so many things: the mysterious nature of magic, unknown forces, and hidden abilities.  Was it Harry Potter that was special?  Or had Harry Potter just managed to tap something unseen, something that might lay in the heart of every child (especially a child like Draco, who had more advantages than most.)  But Draco knew better than to share these thoughts with anyone.  His parents certainly wouldn’t have approved.  As Draco fidgeted with the hem of his robes, he wondered what Harry would think.  His best friend shared the namesake of that famous ‘savour’ after all.

 

But it wasn’t the image of Harry Potter that had been crushed all those months ago.  It was Draco’s image of the Dark Lord.  His eyes slipped towards the closed doors, but he quickly looked away, pretending that the shudder that rippled through his body was due to the cold, and not other reasons.  Draco hated to ever admit that he was afraid, even in moments when he was.  He was born a leader, a men among (and above) men.  Malfoys didn’t feel fear.  Or at least that was the impression that Draco got from his father, who wore his cold equanimity so well.

 

Thinking of the Dark Lord pushed Draco’s mind into rather painful directions, as if one thought wanted to go one way, and was colliding rather violently with a thought which wanted to go another way.  One one hand, Draco’s father had returned from Albania with a subdued sort of triumph, as if the Dark Lord really  _ was _ a hero.  On the other hand, was the Dark Lord himself.  Had Draco been wrong about heroes all along?  Perhaps heroes weren’t charismatic, amiable and charming like the characters in Draco’s childhood stories, but instead were awe-inspiring, leg-quivering, bladder-exploding terrors.  Perhaps a hero wasn’t supposed to someone you imagined as a friend, but instead, someone that made you want to fall to your knees in hopes that such an act would spare your own life.  Draco knew that his father bent to his knees for the Dark Lord.  Draco knew that this meant that he would have to do the same.

 

The clicking of the door latch caused Draco to flinch, and he stood to attention, forgetting about his attempts to look bored and indifferent.  But it wasn’t the Dark Lord that emerged, only Harry, and Draco felt his muscles slacken in relief.

 

 “Harry,” he greeted hopefully.

 

His friend look up at him, with eyes ringed by dark circles, but there was also a feverish quality to them, in their unnatural brightness.  It was better than the dead-eyed looks that flattened Harry’s expression in the months before, but it wasn’t the  _ old _ Harry.  The old Harry had enlivened Draco’s life, and made the mundane world of the manor feel like a place of limitless possibilities and fun.  But  _ that _ Harry had had his sister.  That Harry had had a mother who was still… breathing.  Whatever the Dark Lord had done to Aunt Bella, she most certainly wasn’t the same.  And though Draco’s mother had forbidden Draco to ever enter Aunt Bella’s room, Draco still went, if only because Harry went.  It was what best friends did.  They were there for each other.

 

 “Hi Draco,” Harry answered, barely even glancing his way.

 

Draco compressed his lips, fighting his first instinct, which was to walk up to Harry and just shake him until he snapped out of his strange state.  Such methods might work for Vincent and Gregory, Draco’s other close friends, but Harry wasn’t as simple and straightforward as Vince and Greg.

 

 “You weren’t in there as long today,” Draco observed.

 

Harry nodded.  “ _ He _ was calmer today.”

 

Draco itched to ask Harry what he and the Dark Lord did during all those meetings they shared.  But it was a question Draco had already asked time and time again.  He knew Harry’s answer: ‘He just sits there.  I can’t really explain.  It’s -’ and usually, at this point, Harry would be shaking his head, as if to emphasize the limits of speech.  But Draco knew it was more than that.  It  _ had _ to be.  How could the Dark Lord ask for Harry over and over, if all he planned to do was just  _ sit _ there, like some ugly piece of furniture that no one dared to move because it was a magical heirloom.  

 

Draco huffed.  He wouldn’t get a good explanation out of Harry.  All he could do was keep trying to get the  _ old _ Harry back.  The fun Harry.  The Harry that flew with abandon, and gave away smiles like he had some sort of inner well of joy and liveliness so full of excess that it spilled out every which way. 

 

Draco nudged his shoulder against Harry’s.  “Do you want to go flying?  I bet you can’t beat me in a race!”

 

Draco stiffened himself for rejection.  He could already see the ‘no’ forming on Harry’s lips, already feel the familiar sting of refusal which was fading into what was merely a dull throb, still uncomfortable, but not enough to rattle the foundations of his self-worth.  But as Harry turned his head Draco’s way, he must have seen something in Draco’s expression, and Draco hoped he wasn’t reeking of the desperation that he felt, clawing at his edges.

 

Harry’s expression transformed into something softer, tinged with exhaustion and regret, but not refusal.  “You’re dreaming,” he said, with a shadow of a smile.  “No one’s a better flyer than me.”  He paused, and his demeanour suggested a sigh, though he did not, in truth, sigh.  “C’mon.  Let’s go.”

 

As Harry turned towards the nearest exist that would take them out to the broom shed, Draco bit down on his lower lip, trying and failing to hold back the smile that made his throat feel too narrow and his ribs too tight.  And for the first time in months, his steps felt so light that it was like they didn’t even hit the ground.

 

 “Wait up, Harry!  Don’t even  _ think _ about cheating.”

 

Harry turned his face, eyebrows lifted, and lips curled almost impishly.  “As if I would need to!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Harry**

 

Harry shut the door on Bellatrix’s room, his hand lingering on smooth metal of the handle.  The long, elegant corridor, with its intricate persian runner, was empty, even of portraits, and the only sound that could be heard was the soft inflow and outflow of his own breaths.  He visited his adopted mother daily, sometimes with Draco, but more often without, and though she never talked back to him, Harry never considered giving up this small ritual.  It was something he needed.  

 

Though his Aunt Narcissa was more than willing to be a surrogate mother to him (and though there was no denying that she was far more maternal a woman than Bellatrix ever was), it was not the same as having a mother of his own, one who could make Harry feel like he was her one and only.  Just like Bellatrix was Harry’s only.  No one else could take her place.  No one else could be like a mother to him.  And so he clung to that body in the room that was Bellatrix’s shell, soothed by the familiarity of the wild mane of hair, the pale skin, and bony fingers.  But her eyes - Harry tried never to look into her eyes, unable to bear the sight of those white and cloudy orbs that never saw anything.  Never saw him.

 

He released the door handle, willing his mind away from the edge of the dark emotional crevasse where he feared to tread.  It was better to think of Holly instead.  Closing his eyes for a moment (it was easier this way), he searched out the familiar path of their link, until he sensed her presence, so faint and far, but so desperately needed.  He could never maintain the connection for long, not without passing out, but the brief touches of magic were like dribbles of water to a man in the desert.  Without them, he didn’t think he could go on.

 

Wrapping his hand around the wand nestled in his pocket, he sent her a powerful burst of his own magic, interwoven with his love for her, aware that only a strong blast of magic could reach her, even with their link.  Moments later, he felt the stinging itchiness across his skin, and the wetness of open, oozing wounds.  But Harry was accustomed to the pain, and discomfort; it was the price of his magic, and not even a very steep one if it meant he was, in some way, closer to Holly. 

 

Short moments later, he felt her emotions reflected back to him, and wistful smile passed across his face.  But the connection faded away and he was left with only the fading imprint of memories, like footprints being erased by a relentless ocean tide.  

 

Invariably, thinking of Holly caused Harry’s mind to veer towards Snape.  A poisonous darkness bloomed in his chest, and Harry’s lips curled into an unconscious sneer, though beneath that toxic hatred, lay a deeper vulnerability, a fatal weakness that Harry dared not look at.  He had not felt close to Snape, even in the days when the sullen man was just another one of Lucius’ acquaintances.  But that didn’t change Harry’s feelings of betrayal, as irrational as it may have been.  Somehow it was almost worse, being betrayed in such an impersonal way, as if, to Snape, Harry had just been an inconvenience - an obstacle - instead of a living, breathing person with a deep well of motivations and feelings.

 

Harry had thought about Snape a great deal in the past months.  It wasn’t a pleasant thing to dwell upon, but it made him feel alive, to keep adding fuel to his hatred, and to feel anything at all, other than loss, regret and pain.  The maze of his imagination took him on strange turns and detours, drawing on both memory and flights of twisted fancy, as he imagined Snape crawling away from him, as Harry spelled cut, after jagged cut across his body, tearing off a finger one moment, flaying skin the next, before the inevitable blast of green light that would snuff the light from Snape’s ink-black eyes.  

 

It was never a gratuitous desire for violence and pain; ordinarily, Harry shied away from causing pain.  The depths of his empathy ran deep.  But Harry felt no empathy for Snape.  How could he feel empathy for a liar?  He had had months to piece together that fateful encounter out on the Malfoy grounds.  That day that Snape had claimed a vow to protect them, and Holly had rightly called him liar.  So what had changed?  Snape hadn’t been the one who took them away from the vicious ‘discipline’ of the muggles.  Snape wasn’t the one who freed them from the cupboard.  Snape had said that he was on the twin’s side, but had he once asked Harry what that side was?  No.  Snape’s words were empty, meaningless.  Worse than that even.  Somehow, like a spider hiding in the shadows, he had woven a web around Holly, pouring silken words in her ear of what she wanted to hear.   _ Tricked _ her.  How could Holly have not seen it?

 

Harry’s muscles thrummed with an unspent energy.  He felt an irrational urge to punch the wall, but wizards used wands, not fists.  He didn’t entirely blame Snape for what had happened to Holly.  Terrible though it was, some of the fault was his own, for not understanding his sister better, for failing to ease her pain.  What words had Snape used to trick Holly to his side?  Harry wish he knew those words.  The longing made him feel soul sick, with the dreadful knowledge that Harry hadn’t been enough for his sister.  All his efforts, his purpose, his desperate drive.  None of it had been enough.

 

With a start, Harry realized he had already walked a fair distance away from Bellatrix’s room, without even being aware of the rhythmic fall of his own footsteps.  Where was he?  Malfoy manor, was a large enough edifice that it was quite possible to get lost here, and though Harry had lived here for years, that did not make him any less vulnerable to losing his way.  Perhaps it was due to exhaustion and magical depletion, or perhaps it was because he allowed his thoughts to veer into the black caverns of his soul, but he felt his heart begin a nervous patter in his chest.  It didn’t help that there were parts of the manor which were haunted.  It was an old, and vast place, with at least one (seldom seen) ghost, though the ghost tended to spend its time brooding in one of the unused upper bedrooms.

 

He hurried his steps.  Was this wing of the manor always this shadowed?  The judgemental eyes of the portraits felt like a palpable weight upon his skin, making him sweat.  The air seemed to smell of ancient and expensive things - perhaps the scent was magic.  Harry didn’t know.  Uneasy, he quickened his pace.

 

He was turning a corner, unable to escape the disorienting feeling of deja vu, when a voice called out of him, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.  It was only his months of practice in self-control that kept him from leaping up and stumbling in a mass of limbs.  But the voice was a familiar one, and as soon as he heard it, Harry realized where he was.  He turned to face the portrait to which the voice belonged.

 

 “Lady Aloli,” he greeted, a small quaver in his voice.  “How d’you do?”

 

The stern lady sniffed, looking dreadfully offended.  “I had thought that you’d forgotten me, Harry.”  But as she examined Harry’s face, her expression softened.  “I heard about your mother and sister.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

Harry thinned his lips stubbornly, biting back a retort about Bellatrix’s well-being.  He knew that most people didn’t understand his new relationship with his mama (“inferius,” they whispered, “Bellatrix is dead.  That isn’t Bellatrix”), and Lady Aloli’s old advice rose up in his mind, reminding him that it was often a foolish endeavour to try and change other people’s opinions.  ‘People’s opinions are often not mere word, but who they think they are,’ the Lady had said.  Experience had proven those words true enough.

 

So, instead of making a defensive remark, Harry simply nodded, and said a quiet: “Thank you.”  He could feel Lady Aloli’s eyes on him, seeing far more than he wanted anyone to see.  His hands balled into fists, wondering what questions the lady might have for him.  

 

 “I won’t keep you here, if you don’t wish to talk, Harry,” the Lady said, and her words caused him to start, and then flush with shame.  He realized that he had assumed the worst of her, assumed that she would pry where she was not wanted and dig at the unhealed wounds that marred his heart and soul.  But Lady Aloli had long ago mastered the subtle skill of social interactions, of reading people’s words, tones, posture, and expressions.  She was no lumbering dowager, bowling over people’s feelings with no consideration.

 

 “I apologize,” Harry said softly.  “I’ve been…” he trailed off, unable to find the words, his eyes sweeping upwards to her face.   

 

She bestowed him with a gentle smile.  “My Terence had a sensitive heart as well.  You don’t have to apologize for who you are.”

 

Harry nodded.

 

 “If ever you do wish to talk, I will always lend you my ear Harry.  You’re a good boy, and it warms my heart to be able to help you.”

 

The words were moving.  He had shut himself away in his shell for too long, and only seemed to emerge to take wing and fly with Draco, but while flying offered a brief respite for his spirit, it did nothing to sooth his muddled thoughts, nor did it silence the recriminations he brought against himself.  He had never told Lady Aloli many of the details of his inner life; she had always been content enough to hear of how Harry was getting on with the Malfoys.  But Harry realized that there was no need to get into details.  Details weren’t the heart of his troubles.

 

Words began to spill forth from his lips: his feelings about the loss of his sister, and his longing for a mama that would give him hugs, affection, praise and love; his confusion about growing and changing and realizing he was a separate person from Holly; his turmoil about how things seemed to have mended between him and his sister, only because they had been forcibly ripped apart; and finally, his smothering hatred for the man who took his sister away - a hatred that filled him with even more shame, once the hidden feelings and impressions exposed themselves as words. 

 

By the time he was done speaking, he felt hollowed.  He rubbed his arm, wincing at the scratch of the wool robes against his scraped and bleeding skin.  When he glanced up at Lady Aloli, her expression was sad, and it made him ache.

 

 “You have suffered much, for one so young,” the Lady murmured.

 

There was nothing Harry could say to that.  He felt he had suffered, and suffered dearly.  But the thought of being pitied, or thought weak, made his skin prickle and heat.  If he was pitiful and weak, how could he ever hope to save Holly?

 

 “But you have a strength about you as well,” Lady Aloli mused, thoughtfully.  “I always sensed that you did.  You aren’t one to wallow in the dregs of your pain, Harry.  But you brood, and such dark thoughts are driving you anger - an anger you shouldn’t be ashamed of, I should add, but which you cannot let consume you.”

 

Harry’s brows drew together, and he stared down at the ornate curlicues of the portrait’s frame.  “What should I do then?”

 

 “What all of us must do, Harry dear.  Move forward.”

 

He wanted to argue those words, to fight them.  Instead, he said a disbelieving:  “How?”

 

 “Live your life,” she advised.  “I mean  _ truly _ live your life.  You cannot change the past.  It’s a fool’s errand.  And so too is fixating on what you do not have.  Your mother.  Your sister.  Those are lost - no, Harry, I’m not suggesting your sister is lost to you forever.  But she is lost to you at this moment - the present moment.  Knowing you, you’ll get her back.  I believe that completely.  But you neglect what is in front of you for what you don’t have.”

 

 “Like what?”

 

The lady gave him a sad smile that held echoes of an unspoken past.  “When was the last time you helped the Lady Malfoy in her orangery?  When was the last time you sat with her, spoke to her?  She may not have said it outright, but from what you’ve told me, it would not be a leap to say that the Lady Malfoy loves you, as she loves her own son.  I like to think that I might understand what lies in her heart.”

 

Lady Aloli’s words held no judgement, and yet Harry was stricken by a terrible guilt.  He had been so blinded by his own pain that he hadn’t thought of the pain of those around him.  He may have lost the essence of his mama, and lost the presence of his sister, but Aunt Narcissa had lost her sister as well.  And there was Draco, who kept giving him kicked-puppy looks, all those times that Harry had refused to go out to fly.  But these days, flying was a welcome distraction, and Draco no longer seemed so forlorn and lost.  Harry sighed.  Every fibre of his being screamed at him to get Holly back, but there was no excuse for being a bad person, and for ignoring the suffering of others in favour of nursing his own wounds.  Those wounds were no longer as tender as they had been months ago.  And Harry could see that Lady Aloli was right, as much as he didn’t want her to be.  How was it that she was so skilled at sneaking past his stubborn barriers?

 

 “I should go see Aunt Cissy, shouldn’t I?” Harry murmured.  His aunt had insisted on the sobriquet, claiming that being called ‘Aunt Narcissa’ sounded far too stiff from her beloved nephew.

 

 “Not a terrible idea, Harry.”  Harry could hear the smile in her voice.

 

He looked up at her and said: “Thank you,” his expression grave.

 

Lady Aloli nodded.  “Return and let me know how it went?” 

 

The questioning note in her tone only amplified Harry’s guilt, like an accusing spotlight on his own selfishness  Did Lady Aloli think that Harry would forget her again?  He had never forgotten her; he had only been lost in his own grief.  But the words would not come, so instead, he nodded.

 

As Harry ventured down to the orangery, trepidation pressed at his ribs and made his breaths shallow.  He shook his head, wondering at his own nervousness.  It wasn’t as though he had spent the past months avoiding Narcissa.  Merlin’s beard, he saw her every day at their meals!  But he was starting to realize that while he had been aware of Narcissa’s presence, that didn’t mean that he had really  _ seen _ her.  Harry had lived the past few months as little more than a ghost, and the people around him may as well have been walls or end-tables, for all the attention he gave them.

 

He was nervous, not because he feared Narcissa but because he feared looking up at her beautiful and serene face, and seeing her disappointment and loss of esteem for him.  But if his Aunt Cissy did love him any less, Harry supposed it was deserved.

 

He paused at the entrance of the orangery, his eyelids closing as he inhaled the rich and fragrant air, the humidity bringing to mind exotic places that he had never been.  He could see Narcissa within, bent over as she carefully pruned one of her plants, the Trillbells, it seemed.  Steeling himself, he stepped forward, letting impulse rather than courage drive him.  If he had to wait until he was ready to face his aunt, then it was likely that his feet would remain glued to the spot indefinitely.

 

Hearing the soft scrape of his footsteps, Narcissa looked up, and her eyes widened in surprise when she spotted him.  But if Harry had been expecting reproofs, he soon learned that he was wrong.  Narcissa’s expression was misty and hopeful.

 

 “Harry?”

 

 “Hullo, Aunt Cissy,” he greeted shyly, finding it easier to trace the shape of the Starheart’s polished leaves than to meet her eyes.

 

 “Is everything all right?” 

 

The worry in her voice was yet another heap to add on to his pile of guilt.  He turned to look at her, but could only meet her eyes for half a second before glancing back at the greenery.  It was so much easier to fixate on trivial details, like the spidery veins of the leaves, than to face difficult things.  “I - I’m fine,” he answered.  It was mostly true.  He was no longer in that dark, endless place he was mired in months ago.  “How are you?  I came -” he paused, “to see how you’re holding.”

 

Narcissa had always been masterful at controlling her expressions, but in that moment, she looked as if she had been struck.  The screen fell away from her pale eyes so that Harry could see the raw pain that lay beneath - a pain which rivaled his own - or perhaps it ran even deeper.  Narcissa had known Bellatrix her whole life, while Harry had only had a few short years.  But there was no sense in measuring one’s pain against another’s, and Narcissa’s walls had returned, so that she was able to give him a quivering smile.  

 

Before she could wipe away the truth with her words, before she could claim to be fine, Harry was already closing the distance between them.  He took her cool hand in his own, their eyes meeting as he looked up at her.

 

 “I’m sorry,” he said. 

 

She squeezed his hand, resting her free hand on their clasped ones, her eyes shining with unshed tears.  “You have nothing you need to be sorry for.”  Her voice was husky and faltering, so unlike her usual graceful tones.  “Bella always did walk her own path.  She - she couldn’t have done otherwise.”

 

Harry nodded, but it was a struggle to find the words that he wanted.  He wanted to say that he understood.  He wanted to say that even though he had the likeness of Bellatrix in one of the rooms above, it wasn’t the same, and he missed her.  He felt like there was a gaping pit in his heart, an open grave.  There were so many feelings, and so few words that could adequately express the jagged and sweeping contours of his emotions.

 

But before Harry could even try and articulate anything, Narcissa sighed: “Oh, Harry,” with such emotion that Harry’s eyes began to sting.  His heart seemed to lodge in his throat, as if recognizing in his Aunt Cissy, a kindred heart, and longing to reach her in any way possible.  And then, she was crouching down, her arms wrapped around him, and he felt himself become boneless against her as he wept, his shoulders violently shaking. 

 

It was a while before Harry realized that his Aunt Cissy was weeping as well.

 

They pulled apart, and Harry was unsurprised to learn that Narcissa was a beautiful crier.  Her eyes were barely swollen, and though her cheeks were wet with tears, her eyes seemed to gleam and her skin still maintained its marble-like complexion.  As for Harry, he felt snot-nosed, red-eyed and worn out.  But he also felt understood, and he felt that he understood his Aunt Cissy.  They had both loved and lost.

 

A searching look passed across Narcissa’s face as her eyes roved over him.  With the wave of her wand, his nose was clear, and the rawness of his eyes was soothed, for which he was grateful.  But her brows had drawn together slightly, and Harry began to tense, wondering if he would receive a lecture about how the woman upstairs was  _ not _ Bellatrix, and that Harry needed to let go.  Harry didn’t want to hear it.  Not after the moment they just shared.  But as if reading Harry’s thoughts, Narcissa simply simply gave him a sad smile, and gently squeezed his arm.

 

 “Would you like to help me prune the Trillbells?” she asked instead.  “Did I ever tell you that Trillbells were one of Bella’s favourites when we were young?  Not that she would ever openly admit to liking flowers, but when she thought no one was paying attention to her, she used to tap on the blossoms to make them ring.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened.  “Really?”  It was hard to imagine Bellatrix as a young girl.  It made his chest hurt to think of how much he didn’t know about her.  But he wanted to hear more.

 

 “Really,” Narcissa said, her smile softer, and warmer.  She handed him a set of magical garden shears, spelled to numb and instantly heal plants that had been trimmed.  After all, just like any other living being, magical plants did not like to suffer pain.  “Be sure to trim the branches that are too long.  Trillbells grow better when they can grow up instead of out.  I’m sure you remember.”

 

Harry nodded, looking over at the plant, which looked like a miniature willow tree, heavy with wisteria-like blue flowers.  While the pair of them carefully pruned the ornate plant, shaping the branches to allow the Trillbells to grow in the most lyrical way, his aunt shared stories of her childhood.  

 

Her eyes crinkled wistfully as she spoke of her elder sister’s untamable nature, of Bellatrix’s fierce battles with authority figures, of her wild passions and irrepressible energy.  She painted a picture of a dark-haired girl with a personality as loud as her voice, and a fearlessness that many might have labelled as insanity, but Narcissa never saw the insanity in Bellatrix’s actions; only that inner fire that drove her actions, and pushed her to seize every experience in life with both hands, never letting go, no matter how much it cost her, or how much it pained her.

 

The more that Narcissa spoke, the more Harry saw that to the young-Narcissa, Bellatrix was rather like the heroine in a fairy story, a bit distant and untouchable, but yet vivid and bright.  He realized that he saw Bellatrix the same way.  Bellatrix may have been free with her touches and affection, she she may have been there at some of the most important moments of Harry’s life, but Bellatrix had always had a distant quality, as though she walked on another plane of existence, hopelessly driven forwards by her shining dreams.  Bellatrix may have been his mama, but she was never a mama first - she had always been her own person, driven by her own motives.  But Harry couldn’t have loved her any less for it.  It only made her seem more beautiful in his mind.

 

By the time they were finished trimming the Trillbells, Harry was regretting that there wasn’t more to do.  His afternoon with Narcissa had lightened the weight upon his heart.

 

But as if reading his mind, Narcissa said: “This has been a lovely afternoon, Harry.  I’m thinking of ordering a new plant, a very delicate and sensitive one called Waltzing Orchids.  The plant can be very particular about the witch or wizard working with it.  Would you be interesting in helping me?”

 

Harry swallowed thickly.  “Yes, Aunt Cissy.  I would like that.  I would like that very much.”

 

-o-

 

**Severus Snape**

 

Severus Snape never imagined himself in a situation where he would bear the sole responsibility of a young girl.  Correction: he never imagined himself in a situation where he would  _ willingly _ bear the sole responsibility of a young girl.  And yet, though it should have been no surprise to one as cynical as himself, fate had shown its cruel hand once again, proving that no matter how difficult or miserable his life was, there were always ways in which he could be ever more wretched.

 

Though in truth, ‘wretched’ wasn’t the precise word that Severus would have chosen.  ‘Troubled’ would have been a more accurate descriptor.

 

When he had first discovered that the Potter twins had been living in Malfoy manor, and not safely ensconced away in some idyllic safehouse with adoring (worshipful) guardians, being spoiled to some offensively sickening degree, he had been shocked, and Severus was not a man who appreciated being subjected to unwanted surprises.  Future reflection had shown that, to some extent, this was his own fault for being wilfully ignorant about the fate of the twins, but was it any wonder that he hadn’t wanted to know the particulars about Potter’s sprog?  Of course, that was ignoring the fact that the twins were Lily’s as well.  But Severus made it a point to think of a Lily as little as possible.  His life was difficult enough without abasing himself with the additional emotional flogging.

 

He hadn’t wanted to believe that the twins could have, indeed, been hiding under his nose all these years within the halls of the Malfoy manor.  But Severus hadn’t survived through tumultuous times by denying difficult truths.  And the Potter twins in Malfoy hands had been a bitter, bitter potion to swallow.  

 

Severus could understand being seduced to the Dark side.  He himself had seen its allure, had been drawn in by the intoxicating promises of power, of admiration, of being on top and being able to press your boot heel down upon the necks of those who bullied and tormented you for years upon years.  So when he had discovered the Potter twins living at the Malfoys, when he had tricked the young Harry into revealing the reality of the fact, a part of him had thought that hope was lost, that the twins would have been won over to the Dark side.  It wasn’t until he had used Legilimency to peer into Holly’s mind that he realized that he was wrong: there was in fact hope.  The boy may have been firmly in the grip of the Malfoys (and apparently Blacks, since it turned out that the escaped convict Bellatrix had been hiding in the manor all along).  But Holly (Severus couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Miss Black, nor could think of her as a Potter) hadn’t been.  Holly had been desperate for escape, and Severus  _ knew _ , without question, that he had to help her (help both of them).  Lily would have wanted it.

 

If he had been a better man, he would have told Albus Dumbledore of his discovery upon making it.  He respected Albus - owed him his life, even.  But Severus was a Slytherin before he was anything else, and while it may have seemed callow to define himself by Hogwarts’ House affiliation, there was no denying that he was a cunning man, with a strong sense of self-preservation, who understood the many advantages of secrecy, especially keeping secrets from those in positions of authority.  It disturbed him too, to think that Albus hadn’t known that the twins had fallen into the hands of the Malfoys.  Severus was sure that the conniving old man had had his sneaky fingers in every pie.  How had he not known of the twins?  Did he not check up on them?

 

Such thoughts made Severus uneasy and suspicious, though admittedly he was a man easily given to suspicion.  It justified his secrecy, and even as he realized that he was essentially planning on abducting (rescuing?) the twins, he still did not share his plans with Albus.

 

Corresponding with Holly had been an interesting experience.  If, prior to finding the twins, someone had told him that he would have been exchanging letters with a seven-year-old, he would have barked a laugh in that person’s face, before relentlessly mocking them until their very self-worth was utterly and completely crushed.  And yet, corresponding with Holly had not been disagreeable.  Her penmanship was impressive for one so young, and she did not prattle about inane matters, such as toys, or furry things, or edibles, or whatever other twaddle that young people, with their piddling little minds, seemed to find so important.

 

If anything, the letters had struck a chord, and it unnerved him to think that anything a seven year old could experience could possibly strike a chord with him.  Holly may have tried to hide it, may have thought that her innocuous words revealed nothing, but they had said as much as they hadn’t said.  It was like that question Holly had asked so long ago when they had first met: ‘didn’t Lily consider that there are things worse than death?’  How could a world be so harsh that a seven year would know of things worse than death?  But at seven, Severus himself had had an inkling.  With his alcoholic and abusive father, and his passive mother, Severus knew that the world could be a terrible, terrible place for children.  The letters that Severus received from Holly only served to solidify his resolve to help Holly, to help the twins.

 

Unfortunately, any information that could be gained from Holly had been limited.  In his paranoia, Severus had warned Holly early on to be careful with what she revealed in her letters.  She had essentially been living in a den of snakes, and if she was discovered, Severus couldn’t help but imagine the grisly fate that might befall her.  It was a prudent choice to make, but he realized that it would stem the flow of information he could potentially receive.  And yet, as duplicitous as he had the potential to be, he couldn’t bring himself to use her, couldn’t bring himself to turn her into a younger, more vulnerable version of himself: a spy.  Slytherin he may have been, but the ends did not always justify the means.  And Lily’s daughter deserved to be kept safe.  

 

Of course there were other means of gathering information.  Severus had always had an agreeable relationship with Lucius Malfoy, and he was aware that Lucius respected him for the part he played in the first wizarding war.  But although Severus was aware that Lucius had become increasingly smug and self-satisfied, he was not able to get the man to reveal the plans that he was so pleased about.

 

In retrospect, Severus found himself wishing that he had just asked Holly.  The girl had been far more prudent than he could have imagined, using a house-elf to circumvent the owl post so that no one had known that she had been corresponding with anyone in the first place.  But it was a lost chance, and there was nothing that could have been done to change it.  He had received her frantic letter, written in an unusually hasty scrawl about Albania, and the Dark Lord, and most terrifying of all, the final message: Help me!  And though he knew he should have planned, should have finally sent word to Albus, instead, he recklessly leapt into action, and it ended up being fortuitous that he even managed to find Holly and retrieve her at all.  And the price?  He had failed to get the boy, and had revealed his hand to the Dark Lord.

 

His position was vulnerable.  This, Severus knew.  At this point, at least, he should have told Albus about what had come to pass, should have handed over the girl to safer, more parental hands.  But on that terrible day, when he had brought Holly back to Spinner’s End alone, he couldn’t bring himself to leave her and find Albus - not with the way she was clinging to him, with sobs wracking her body.  Severus loathed the tears of others.  But still, he couldn’t leave her.

 

After that, it had just ended up being a matter of letting the days slip away from him.  He did, of course, finally send word to Albus about the Dark Lord’s return.  It was imperative that Albus gather together the members of the Order of the Phoenix, and prepare for the dark storm ahead.  But for reasons he couldn’t define, Severus left Holly out of that note.  It was summer, which meant that he didn’t need to be at Hogwarts.  And Holly, after that one display of emotion, had seemed to flip some internal switch so that she showed almost no emotion at all.  Or at least, it would appear that way to one who was less observant than Severus Snape.

 

Holly’s presence could have been likened to that of a small stray cat.  Once he had shown her her room (after making an effort to transfigure some decent sheets, rather than the dreadful, threadbare and itchy material), she seemed to hide away there, but what she did remained a mystery to him.  Some part of him had thought that a decent person would have made an effort to socialize with the girl.  But Severus didn’t think of himself as a decent person, and so he did not bother her.  Day after day, he argued with himself about telling Albus of her presence, about placing her in better care.  But another part of him resisted.

 

 ‘Let her grieve in peace,’ he thought.  She didn’t need a flock of concerned hens pecking over her pain.  He was vaguely aware that he was projecting - imagining his own reactions and thinking of how he prefered solitude when he was miserable.  And in truth, if all Holly ever did was stay in her room, he would have eventually owled Albus, and he would have done the ‘right’ thing by giving Holly up to someone more experienced at dealing with young children.

 

But Holly didn’t just stay in her room.  It started on the third day of Holly’s arrival in Spinner’s End.  Severus had woken up, realizing that he was completely out of his depth when it came to the care of young children.  Children were  _ supposed _ to be noisy, unmanageable urchins, whose joyful shrieks were like daggers in his ears.  Children were  _ not _ supposed to be silent wraiths who did not leave their rooms, not even for meals.  He had practically leapt out of bed (at the typical hour of 6 o’clock in the morning), determined to tell Albus of all that had happened, and to wipe his hands of the whole matter, but when he pulled open his door, he nearly tripped over the bundle on the floor.  For a moment, he thought that the child was being a typical, irresponsible and thoughtless little brat (surely a good sign, surely a normal one).  It took several heartbeats for him to realize it wasn’t a pile of clothes or toys on the floor (not that his home in Spinner’s End  _ had _ any toys), but that it was the child herself.  Holly had been sleeping outside his door, blanketless, curled up in the most pitifully tiny ball he had ever seen.  All thoughts of telling Albus anything flew out of his head.  

 

With a care that he normally reserved for concocting potions, he picked her up and carried her to her room, tucking her into bed.  It was disturbingly paternal.

 

In the weeks that followed, Holly continued to keep herself hidden away, but more often than not, he would find her sleeping outside his room.  And other little signs gave away her presence.  Papers and quills went missing.  If it were a student, such an act would have enraged him, but Severus was mostly relieved that she had some sort of activity to engage herself with, and made it a point to ensure that paper and ink remained in abundant supply.

 

He noticed too, that sometimes, a book would go missing from his shelves, only to be returned to its exact spot several days later.  But most curious and strangely painful of all were the changes in his potions lab.  

 

Severus was a secretive man, but something about Holly, her extreme reticence perhaps, made him more willing to open himself up.  For the most part, this meant leaving leaving the books he was reading on the table in order to draw her curiosity, or leaving doors open that he usually kept carefully locked.  And one of these doors was the door to his potions lab.

 

He was aware of the dangers.  He wouldn’t trust first year Hogwarts students with his potions lab, and Holly was far younger than a first year, but some strange intuition suggested that this was an acceptable course of action, and Severus generally trusted his intuition.  He couldn’t have explained why it was a good idea.  Perhaps he thought that his own fascination with potions would stir the same interest in Holly.  And indeed, there were small signs that Holly had ventured into his lab: tools would be shifted by a centimetre, or a book would be picked up, and set down at a slight angle.  She never did anything to damage his ingredients or his lab.  But then, she never did much of anything at all.

 

As she gained more confidence, he noticed more hidden activity in his lab, but not at all in the way he expected.  Severus would often keep his notes near his work station for the projects he was working on.  Potions often required meticulous planning, especially advanced projects or new experimentations.  It was never merely a matter of mixing and stirring ingredients, but carefully preparing them as well.

 

And what Severus was discovering was that Holly was preparing his potions ingredients for him, taking care of the arduous, repetitive tasks that he often punished students with for their detentions.  When he realized this, his chest had felt uncomfortably tight.  Did Holly think that she had to earn her keep?  That she did not deserve to be here?  Was she trying to prove her worth?  He had never  _ wanted _ to speak to a child before, but now he was tempted to march towards her door, if only for an explanation.  Why was she doing this?  Perhaps it was simply curiosity?

 

But Severus refrained, and instead, he did what he did best: remain watchful and patient.

 

After a month, she dared to venture out of her room when Severus was around.  Though he was pleased by this development, he kept his expression neutral, and acted as though the event was nothing out of the ordinary.  He took in details of her face: the swollen and reddened eyes from the tears she had shed, the pale features, the gauntness.

 

And instead of remarking about any of it, he said: “Breakfast is on the table.”

  
She had started at that, as if she hadn’t expected to be acknowledged.  But after a minute of hesitation, she made her way towards him and sat at the table.  He pushed the food towards her - a bowl of porridge.  She dutifully ate it.  He had been reading a potions journal, but there was a newspaper sitting on the table.  He pushed that towards her.  She began to read.  It was difficult for him to rein in his smile, but he managed.  Yes, she was like a stray cat.  But stray cats could eventually learn to trust.


	3. Chapter 3

**Harry**

 

Harry stood outside the door to Lucius Malfoy’s office, his stomach knotted and his palms damp with nervousness.  Of the Malfoys, Lucius had been the most difficult to win over.  Narcissa was inclined to love him simply for being who he was, and for being a Black.  And as for Draco, all Harry had had to do was prove himself a better friend than Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, and that was no challenging feat.  But when it came to Lucius?  Respect was not unquestionably given.  Harry had had to earn it.

 

But then, they had left for Albania.  Holly had been taken.  Bellatrix had, well, been changed.  And Harry had retreated from the world, oppressed by his own inner torment, and now he was wondering if he had lost his uncle’s respect in that time.  Had Harry’s emotions been a display of weakness?  A sign that he was somehow unfit?

 

A shaky sigh escaped from his lips.  This was no time to surrender to a fit of cowardice.  He thought of his Aunt Cissy, of how she was one of the most remarkable people he knew, of her core of inner strength and goodness, and if Narcissa could be strong while accepting the depths of her emotions, then so too could Harry.

 

He thought of calling for Dobby to announce him.  But since Holly had left, Dobby had changed, and not for the better.  The over-eager house-elf’s behaviour had always leaned towards the insane end of the battiness spectrum, but as of late, he was even more erratic and emotional.  Holly had almost been able to break Dobby from his dramatic displays of self-abuse, but her departure had caused a resurgence in Dobby’s disturbing actions.  Though Dobby was still Harry’s house-elf, and though he generally performed his duties well enough, Harry knew that letting Dobby announce his presence would be a bad idea.  Better to use Draco’s house-elf instead.

 

As the door to Lucius’s office opened, Harry walked in with his chin tilted upwards, projecting a confidence he did not feel.  Lucius’s office had always felt welcoming when Harry had had the man’s trust and regard, but now it felt imposing, with its immense wooden desk, its walls of leather-bound books, and the grand portraits of esteemed Malfoy ancestors looking upon them with pale and judging eyes.

 

 “Harry!” his Uncle Lucius greeted, standing up.

 

Harry blinked, surprised by the strangely ebullient welcome.  His uncle was giving him a look that reminded Harry of the expression he normally saved for particularly important associates.  

 

 “Uncle Lucius,” Harry answered cautiously.  “How d’you do?”

 

 “Quite well.” He paused, expression calculating.  At least to Harry, it seemed that way.  “I know that things have been difficult for you, and you have my sympathies.  We will do all we can to get your sister back.”

 

 “Thank you,” Harry said.  He did not know what else to say.  He knew he should have felt relieved at his uncle’s response, the way he had felt when his aunt had shown her acceptance and caring, and yet Harry was perturbed.  Lucius had never been interested in Harry’s personal life, except where Harry’s life intersected with Draco.  Lucius was a man of business and action, of plans and politics - not feelings and emotions.

 

But perhaps Harry was being paranoid.  Perhaps he was reading more into the situation than he should have.  Harry understood Narcissa and Draco in a way that he didn’t understand Lucius.  Was it any wonder then, that Lucius’ solicitous questions would confuse him?  It would be contemptible of him to suspect the worst.

 

 “I understand that you have been spending much of your time with the Dark Lord,” Lucius said, after Harry had taken his seat.

 

Harry pressed his lips into a line.  He hadn’t felt that he had been spending _that_ much time with the Dark Lord.  But what was he comparing to?  He didn’t even know what the Dark Lord did with his time.  Had he been busy with Lucius, making plans?

 

But Lucius wasn’t awaiting Harry’s response and pressed on.  “What do you know of my - of our plans, Harry?”

 

 “I know that you are working to protect the wizarding world from the muggle threat.  But I’m afraid I don’t know very much beyond that.”

 

Lucius gave him an indulgent smile.  “No, I wouldn’t expect you to, despite your cleverness.”

 

The praise warmed him, and Harry waited for Lucius to continue.

 

 “You are correct though.  We are working to stem the tide of this muggle contamination of our world.  Mudbloods and their ilk cannot continue to be permitted to move unhindered from the muggle world to our own, risking our exposure.  Their arrogance is intolerable, strutting about as if they deserve to be here, as much as any pureblood, while having no respect for our culture and values.  And to have fools like Albus Dumbledore bending over backwards to accommodate them - it’s sickening!  Wizards like Dumbledore are short-sighted.  He believes himself the better man for making the mudbloods feel welcome.  He assumes that because we cherish the wizarding world, that mudbloods would do likewise.” Lucius’s pale eyes flashed.  “He’s a delusional old fool!”

 

A moment passed while Lucius calmed his ire and refocused on Harry.  “Harry, what do you think creates suffering in this world?”

 

Harry thought of Bellatrix and Holly.  “Losing what we care about,” he answered without thinking.

 

Lucius compressed his lips.  “Yes.  That is indeed a tragic thing.  But beyond that, Harry.  What do you think is the _root_ of suffering?  I will tell you.  It is a lack of good character.  A lack of intelligence and strength.  It takes intelligence to see the big picture.  It takes intelligence to see a problem, and strength to have the drive and discipline to solve it.  Think of muggles.  Muggles strike their children, and treat them as chattel.  Muggles use their children for labour, and talk down at them as if they lack the requisite wits to understand.  And why?  Because they fail to see the long term.  They fail to think of how their children will grow up and compose the future of society.  And when they beat these children, cow them into submission, then what?  Then these children grow up to do the same to their own children.  Muggles have, through their own pathetic short-sighted stupidity, created their own woes, from even before the moment of conception.  And that isn’t all.  Muggles have no regard for their environment, which feeds and clothes and sustains them.  Muggles have no regard for those of a different skin colour, though they are all muggles.  Muggles cannot be trusted with fine and fragile things, letting their own jealousies destroy that which is good, that which is beautiful.  And Dumbledore thinks it will serve the wizarding world to allow these crippling traits into our society?

 

 “The so-called Light side tends to think the worst of us,” Lucius continued.  “They think we hunger for war, for blood.  They think we crave a genocide.  But no.  It is _peace_ we desire.  Peace for all wizarding kind.  But how can we have peace, when there is a plague in our midst?  How can we have peace, when mudbloods bring in their infection, slowly poisoning us?”

 

Harry knit his brows.  

 

 “That we wish to neutralize this threat is not an act of hatred, Harry, like the Light side believes.  No, it is only a necessary evil.  Drastic dangers require drastic actions.  Can you understand this?”

 

Harry looked up at Lucius and nodded.  Lucius’ words made sense in a way that Bellatrix’s never had.  Bellatrix had spoken of muggles as if they were vermin, and had relished causing them pain and killing them.  And as much as Harry loved Bellatrix, he could never fully bring himself to hate muggles when they shared the same faces as witches and wizards, and when they spoke the same words.  It was too cruel.  Harry did not want to think of muggles as humans, but in the depths of his heart, he could not escape the idea.

 

But Lucius’ words, those were different.  Lucius wasn’t speaking of taking lives, of gleefully tormenting muggles, of making them squirm and bleed, and extinguishing the light in their eyes.  He was speaking of protecting wizard kind, and by extension, protecting one’s family and loved ones.  And yet, what could account for the shiver that crept down Harry’s spine, and made his hairs stand on end?

 

 “What are your plans, uncle?” he asked.

 

 “To shape the world, we need power and resources.  We need to sway the hearts and minds of those in the Ministry, to make them see that our way is the only way forward, the only way that the wizarding world can hope to survive into the future.”

 

 “You or the Dark Lord wish to become the Minister of Magic?”

 

Lucius’ lip curled upwards, though it was not a happy smile but a predatory one.  “In time, Harry, in time.  There is much groundwork that still needs to be laid.”

 

 “Ah.”

 

They fell into a contemplative silence.  It was Lucius who broke it.  “Harry, you know that you are - family to me.”

 

 “Yes?” Harry answered, uncertain of where Lucius was going.

 

Lucius nodded.  “Yes, family.  It is important to understand where one’s loyalties lie.”

 

Harry was starting to understand Lucius’ point.  “Yes.  I am loyal to my family.  Nothing is more important.”

 

 “Good.  We do what we must for our family, and sometimes, the tasks that are set upon us are heavy burdens.  It is often the Head’s duty to take on such responsibilities.  And in a way, you, Harry are Head of the Black line.”

 

Harry started at that.  He had never considered his own status, and what it meant.  He was vaguely aware that there was another male Black, locked away in Azkaban, but Harry knew nothing of the other man.  He had never given a great deal of thought to what being a Black would entail, and suddenly, he felt smaller than ever.

 

 “Under normal circumstances, you would have the previous Head to guide you Harry.  But lacking that, I, as your uncle, am willing to take that role.”

 

Still feeling overwhelmed, Harry said a soft: “Thank you.”

 

Lucius nodded curtly.

 

Harry looked back up at Lucius.  “What must I do?”

 

 “You are young, yet.  Too young to take on full responsibilities.  And yet -”

 

 “Yet?”

 

The calculating look returned to Lucius’ eyes.  It took most of Harry’s will to sit still rather than squirm like a ill-behaved child, and he knew that if Lady Aloli were witnessing this scene, she would warn him to be on his guard (“You can’t trust someone, just because of blood alone.  But at the end of the day, blood matters above all else.”)

 

 “You’re an observant boy, Harry.  You know that Bellatrix and I were not - close.” Lucius paused to take in Harry’s expression.  “But our goals overlapped, and we were able to set aside our differences.”

 

 “The Dark Lord,” Harry murmured.

 

 “Yes.  The Dark Lord.” Lucius leaned forward, eyes intense.  “What had Bellatrix told you about the Dark Lord?”

 

Harry’s gaze drifted over to the bookshelf as he thought.  “She told me that he was the most powerful wizard she had ever met.  That he was on an order far above other witches and wizards.  Mam - mother told me that the Dark Lord’s raw skill and talent in the Dark Arts was unmatched, and that his mastery could make a person’s legs tremble to see it.  She told me he could do any-” Harry nearly choked on the words.  Because while the Dark Lord may have been powerful, he couldn’t actually do _anything_.  He couldn’t bring Bellatrix back and make her how she was before.  His eyes drifted down to his hands, which were gripping the fabric of his robes, and he forced himself to relax.

 

 “Mother said he could peer into minds, see into one’s heart.  She said he could give a witch or wizard whatever they wanted.  He led the first war, but then - then -”

 

 “Yes,” Lucius interjected, causing Harry to return his attention to the older man.  “The Dark Lord was - highly driven in his cause.  He understood the value of magic.  He saw the potential of it far beyond what the common witch or wizard dares to even dream.  He was - is - unsurpassed.  And yes, he can look into minds, see every hidden corner.”

 

Harry had a feeling that there was a subtext he was missing, some sort of unspoken meaning that he was failing to grasp.  It was clear that his Uncle Lucius wanted something.  But what?

 

However, Lucius did not seem troubled that Harry did not fully understand the situation.  Instead, he reclined back on his seat, his elbows on the armrests, hands steepled.

 

 “You may not realize this Harry, but your connection with the Dark Lord is, let’s just say, unique.  You would do well to cultivate that relationship.  To, ah, use it to your _family’s_ advantage.”

 

Harry froze.  The meaning was clear now.  At least he thought it was.  Was Lucius really suggesting that he deepen his relationship with the Dark Lord?  That he try and use the Dark Lord for the gain of the Blacks or the Malfoys?  But when Harry tried to find some sort of clarity in Lucius’ face, all he saw was hooded eyes and an ambiguous smile.

 

 “It isn’t my place to speak for her, but I worked with Bellatrix for many months.  I know it would please her to see where you are now.”

 

Harry clenched his jaw.  A part of him wanted to leap up and shout: ‘You know nothing of mama!  She hated you!  Don’t even _dare_ to put words in her mouth!’ but Harry couldn’t do it.  He knew Lucius was right.  Bellatrix admired the Dark Lord, but Harry always had the sense that it was more.  She had loved the Dark Lord as well, even if she never used those exact words.  And Lucius was right: Bellatrix would want Harry to be close to the Dark Lord.  He couldn’t do this for Lucius.  But Harry could do it for Bellatrix.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

Holly awoke with a start, her heart pattering wildly within her ribcage as she wondered where she was.  The bedsheets were a soft cotton rather than silk, the pillow strangely lumpy.  The bed itself was far too narrow, the walls dark and dingy, the window blurred with dirt, and - she winced, feeling a fresh tide of pain knocking the breath from her lungs as she realized that Harry was gone.  Harry had been gone for months.  Gone because she left him.  Gone because Severus Snape could not help.

 

Remembrance crashed over her.  She was in Mr Snape’s home in Spinner’s End, a muggle neighbourhood, and far worse than anything she could have imagined (worse even than the muggle neighbourhood she had grown up in with Harry.  There at least, she remembered tidy homes, with identical green lawns, and clean streets.)  Spinner’s End, in the town of Cokeworth was, if she could pick a single word to describe the view outside the windows, dirty.  Dirty identical brick, terrace houses; a dirty river with a dirty bank; dirty smog-filled air; and dirty looking muggles with shifty faces.  And yet, Holly would rather be here than be confined in Malfoy manor, where there were no errant specks of dust, where the walls and furniture all but gleamed,  and where there was not a spot of rubbish in sight.

 

She felt dreadfully weary, more from the burden of her emotions than from lack of sleep, though nightmares continued to dog her night after night.  She did not want to get out of bed, but at the same time, she did not want to lie here, and be bombarded by her own unflagging thoughts.  How had she gotten to bed anyway?  She remembered having a nightmare in the middle of the night, of Bellatrix’s wand pointed at her heart while the older woman tortured, and tortured her, until Bellatrix’s limbs fell off in a spray of blood, blood everywhere.

 

Holly had sprung up with a choking gasp, quivering from the memory of pain, and the memory of blood.  She distinctly remembered crawling out of bed, and curling up in a small shivering ball outside the closed door of Mr Snape’s bedroom.  She felt safer when she was close to the morose man, though she could not put a finger on why.  After all, he was distant, uncommunicative and cold.  And yet, safe was how Holly felt.

 

Her mind skirted over the nightmare, irresistibly draw towards the past, as awful as the experience had been.  She wondered why she did not feel safer now that Bellatrix was dead.  It should have been a relief, shouldn’t it?  But no, she had been there, towards the end, when the Dark Lord had arisen.  She had seen the possessiveness in those dark, fathomless eyes, and had instinctively understood his return meant that she would never be safe.  The Dark Lord embodied everything about Bellatrix that Holly hated and feared.  But Bellatrix had learned to be cautious of Holly, and had known better than to cross her boundaries; the Dark Lord felt no need for caution, and did not fear her.  Was there even a defense against such a being as the Dark Lord?

 

Holly did not feel any satisfaction from Bellatrix’s death.  Neither did she feel sorrow nor regret.  It was true that Bellatrix had saved her and Harry from those awful muggles, the cramped cupboard, the senseless punishments.  But then, Bellatrix had inflicted her own senseless punishment upon her, and had tortured her, and for what?  Information?  Had Holly been worth so little to her?  Holly did not feel satisfaction from Bellatrix’s death, but she still felt that it was right to have happened.  Someone like Bellatrix, someone so thoughtless, single-minded, and driven, was like a flaming arrow across the night sky.  Perhaps she could have set the world on fire, but it was better that she had struck dirt and burnt out.

 

But why had Harry never been able to see it?  Holly sighed.  These thoughts never left her and she was so tired.

 

She pushed the covers off, and shivered when her feet touched the cold bare floors.  Her brows drew together.  Had Mr Snape brought her back to her bed?  She was so sure she had fallen asleep in front of his door.  But no matter how many times that happened, she always awoke back in her own bed.  She had considered asking him about it once, but the sight of his cheerless face had quickly changed her mind.  But cheerless or not, she was grateful to him.  He had helped her when no one else would.  She did not trust anybody (but Harry), but she was starting to think that she might trust Mr Snape, at least a little bit.

 

Padding down the crooked stairs to the main floor, she saw that Mr Snape was already awake, and reading a newspaper.  Ordinarily, he would arch his black brows, and push a plate of food towards her, but there was something different in his expression today that caused her stomach to drop.  Her mind scrambled for answers.  Had she done something wrong?  Accidently misplaced one of his books?  Or worse, ruined his potions?  Silently, she castigated herself for even thinking that she could help.  She should have just stayed in her room, and - and just stayed there.  She should have never taken his parchment and his quills.  She probably shouldn’t have even left the Malfoys.  She was such a failure.

 

Her footsteps were already backing away before her thoughts could catch up to her body, her breaths so shallow that she was feeling dizzy.

 

 “Holly.”

 

She froze, eyes wide and pinned to Mr Snape’s black eyes.  His expression was grim, lips pulled into a long thin line, and his sallow skin even paler than usual, but she finally registered that he wasn’t upset with her.  And yet, he _was_ upset.  That much was certain.

 

 “Sit down, Holly.”

 

She remained on the spot for several heartbeats.  But eventually, her steps took her forward, and she made her way to the small round table in the small, shabby kitchen.  The chair she sat in was slightly lop-sided, and was hard and cold.  Chairs in the Malfoy manor had never been lop-sided.  Forcing herself into a semblance of calmness, she placed her hands on her lap (after first making sure that her wand was still in her pocket).  Then, she looked up at Mr Snape nervously, wondering what axe was about to fall, because if there was one thing that Holly had learned in her short life, it was that bad things happened, sometimes without reason, and there was often very little that she could do about it, no matter how hard she tried.

 

Her gaze drifted down to the table.  “Good morning, Mr Snape,” Holly said, barely above a whisper, but good manners had been ingrained in her.  She should have said it earlier, before even sitting down, but there was no changing the past.

 

 “Good morning, Holly.”  He fell silent for a moment, and when Holly dared to peek up at him, she saw that he was examining her.  Immediately, her eyes darted back downwards.  What was the meaning of the look in his eyes?  He seemed almost anxious, and that thought stirred the disquiet in Holly, like a flock of birds startled into flight.

 

The plate of food was pushed in front of Holly, but her appetite was now lost.  Nonetheless, she picked up her fork, as if pretending to act normal would generate normality.

 

 “There’s something I must discuss.”

 

Holly sucked in a breath.  Was he going to tell her that she was not wanted?  That she was more trouble than she was worth?  She had been trying so hard.  She didn’t want to go back to the Malfoys.

 

 “It’s nearing the end of August, and I must return to Hogwarts for the term.”

 

It was not what Holly expected and she looked back up at him, confused.  

 

 “I cannot bring you with me.”

 

These were the words that Holly feared were coming, but it was the last thing she wanted to hear.  She felt like a dragon had come and sat itself down on her lungs.  She couldn’t breath.

 

 “You’re sending me back to the Malfoys?” she whispered, feeling something in her cracking, feeling the magic within her start to become erratic and wild.

 

 “No!” he burst out.  And then, more quietly, “No.  Not that.”

 

Her eyes were stinging, and so wet with tears that she couldn’t even see Mr Snape clearly, his features a blur of black and white.  “You’re sending me away?”

 

 “You’ll be placed in a good home.  With a family who can take proper care of you.  I -” he paused.

 

 “Can’t you be my family?” Holly said, realizing that she was pleading, but she was so afraid that she did not care.

 

Mr Snape was taken aback.  “It would be inappropriate,” he answered, stiffly.

 

 “Why?”

 

 “We are not related.”

 

Holly’s brows drew together.  “And I would be related to the family you send me to?”

 

 “No, that is not likely,” he admitted.

 

 “Then why?  I don’t understand!” she cried, and the frayed, colourless curtains at the kitchen window began to flutter, though there was no wind.

 

 “No, you don’t,” Mr Snape answered, cuttingly.  

 

Holly blinked, her nose stuffy so that her breaths came in ragged gasps that she failed to silence.  She had never heard Mr Snape use such a tone before, so hard edged that it could not be argued.  The anger that had been rising up fizzled out into a sad fear, and she wilted.

 

Unable to bear the sight of food, she set down the fork, and pushed away from the table.  She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she couldn’t bear to be here, under Mr Snape’s rejecting stare.

 

 “Holly.”

 

She paused.  Slowly, she looked up at him.  The emotions on his face only increased her perplexity, and everything felt so bewildering that she couldn’t make sense of anything.  Mr Snape’s normally impassive expression was gone, and he looked nearly as distressed as she felt.

 

 “Holly, what do you know of the Dark Lord?”

 

The change in topic was so abrupt that it took a moment for Holly to process it.  She shook her head.  “Not very much.  Ma - _She_ wanted to bring him back.”

 

“She being Bellatrix?”

 

Holly nodded.  “She made him - the Dark Lord that is - sound like the most powerful wizard in the world.  Like he would fix everything.  Get rid of the muggles.”  She furrowed her brows, and glanced at Mr Snape.  “Can he?”

 

Mr Snape’s expression darkened.  “I don’t doubt that he will try.  The Dark Lord is - dangerous.  Living with the Malfoys, I’m not sure you truly understand the great extent of the danger.”

 

 “But, I’m safe with you.”

 

Mr Snape frowned.  “You are safe because your location is unknown.  But -” he looked away, “if you are with another family, you will be better protected.  Albus will ensure that you are placed somewhere safe.”

 

Holly shook her head.  “No!  I don’t want to!  Please, _please_ don’t make me!”  Fresh tears were springing to her eyes.  “What if I stay here?  I - I don’t mind!  I don’t need to go to Hogwarts with you.  Please!”

 

 “I can’t -”

 

 “ _Please!_  I’m - I’m afraid!  I don’t _want_ a family!  I want you!”

 

Mr Snape looked as if he had been slapped, and Holly wondered if she had said the wrong thing.  Her whole body was trembling with misery.  Was this the moment that he would admit that he didn’t want her?  Never wanted her?

 

 “No one will know I’m here,” she pushed, desperately.  “I won’t ever go out.  I’ll stay hidden.  I can be good.  I can help with your potions if you like!  I - maybe I could do other things?” She glanced around the grubby kitchen.  “Clean?”  She hadn’t had to clean anything since she lived with the muggles but she was sure she could figure something out.

 

Mr Snape’s expression was shifting, becoming indecisive.

 

 “You won’t even know I’m here,” Holly continued.  “I won’t touch _anything_ if you don’t want me to.  I’ll stay in my room all the time!”

 

Mr Snape shook his head.  “That won’t be necessary.”

 

A sob escaped Holly’s lips.

 

 “No!” he exclaimed.  “That’s not what I meant.  I -”  he pressed his long fingers to the ridge of his brows, as if unable to believe his situation. “I must be a fool for doing this,” he muttered.  He looked back at Holly.  “You can stay.  But you _must not ever_ reveal yourself.  Do you understand?”

 

Holly’s eyes widened.  “I - I can stay?”

 

 “Merlin help me,” Mr Snape said, under his breath.

 

 “Truly?  Thank you!  Oh, thank you!  You won’t regret it!  I can be good!”

 

Mr Snape shook his head.  “You are free to read my books, and if you are careful, you make enter my lab, but you are _not_ to attempt to prepare anything yourself without my express permission, do you understand?”

 

Holly nodded, wiping away the wetness on her cheeks, and feeling buoyant.  She wouldn’t have been able to bear losing both Harry and Mr Snape, but if she had at least one of them, then she could survive.  She could keep going.

 

 “And you are free to use my parchment and ink as well.  In fact, we’d best make up a list of things you’ll need.  I cannot believe I’m doing this.”

 

But Holly only nodded, failing to bite back her hopeful smile.  She didn’t have Harry, but maybe things would be all right after all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Harry**

 

 “I just don’t want to do it,” Harry said unhappily, to Lady Aloli’s portrait, his eyes tracing the scrolled motifs of the velvet flocked wallpaper, rather than looking up at the lady’s face.  “Everyone talks about how important he is but -” he shook his head.  “I just...” he trailed off.

 

 “We often have to deal with unpleasant things to get what we want in life,” Lady Aloli answered.  “Tell me about him, this Dark Lord of yours.  We had powerful witches and wizards in our time, but most of them were causing havoc on the continent, not in Britain.  It made for wonderful gossip, of course, but I imagine it’s quite a different beast when one is intimately acquainted with these magical behemoths.”

 

Harry hummed, his brows knitted.  “To be honest, I don’t know very much about him.  I - well the times I spoke to him before - that is, before he returned, he seemed…” he tried to find the right word.  Fascinating?  Magnetic?  Harry had been so strongly swayed by the man’s words, by the idea of who he was.  The Dark Lord seemed to embody charisma. “Charismatic, I suppose.  I felt as though he understood me, and understood what I wanted.  And in a way, I felt like I might understand him as well.  But -” Harry shook his head again, “I wonder now if it was all an illusion.”

 

 “Such is the problem with great men,” Lady Aloli murmured.  “So few of them live up to one’s expectations.”

 

Harry sighed.  “It’s only - well, I  _ do _ know he is powerful.  No one else has been able to touch my wand without being hurt, but he not only touched it, he  _ used _ it.  And he cast so easily with it.  More easily than I even could!  And mama - mother looked up to him so much.  As does Uncle Lucius.” Harry pursed his lips.  “And I get the feeling that Draco is afraid of him, even if Draco has never actually said anything.”

 

The lady gave him a long look.  “Harry,” she began, “does this Dark Lord of yours treat you differently than he treats everyone else?”

 

 “Hm.  I’m not sure.  He asks for me often.  I don’t believe he asks for anyone else - at least not here in the manor.  But I’m not sure what he does when he isn’t here.  Why do you ask?”

 

Lady Aloli shook her head.  “I merely wanted more insight.  I’m still trying to gather my thoughts.  Why don’t you tell me more about him.”

 

Harry nodded.  “I suppose I just thought -” his face crumpled, “I was  _ so _ sure that once we found the Dark Lord, all our problems would be solved.  I thought mama - mother and Holly could mend their row.  The Dark Lord had said that m-mother would do anything for him, and I didn’t doubt it for a moment.  And Holly -” he shook his head, “I thought that once Holly understood his power, she’d finally see.  She’d see how much better off we are, how nothing could hurt us if we had the most powerful wizard in the world on our side.”  Harry broke off.

 

 “Even if she didn’t, the Dark Lord had said that he would help me,” Harry explained.  “And it just seemed that if he understood me so well, then, given the chance, he’d understand Holly too, and know the right things to say.  But then -” he thinned his lips, head shaking slightly, “the ritual.  It -” the rising lump in his throat was making it increasingly difficult to speak, but Harry didn’t want to grieve anymore, and the feelings were swiftly channeled into anger.  “It took my mother’s life.  I  _ know _ she did it willingly.  I  _ know _ it.  But  _ He _ should have been able to save her.  He should have saved her.  But he didn’t.  And then he couldn’t.”  Harry’s hands were clenched so tight that his muscles quivered.  “He couldn’t even save Holly.  Didn’t even leave a mark on  _ Snape _ .”  Harry couldn’t help spitting out the loathsome name.

 

After a pause, Lady Aloli murmured: “So not only did this Dark Lord fail to live up to your expectations.  He disappointed you from very the beginning.”

 

Harry nodded jerkily. 

 

 “And yet, this Dark Lord is the one who holds the power?”

 

Harry furrowed his brows.  “Yes?  Well,” he bit down and released his lower lip.  “When I was speaking with my Uncle Lucius the other day, I’m not sure if I was just imagining it, but he didn’t seem like someone who was -” he tried to search for the right word, “who was lowering himself.  I’ve met many of Uncle Lucius’ associates, and I’ve seen what it looks like for a man to submit.”

 

 “Ah, but men play different roles around different people.  A nobleman may bow or scrape to a king, but turn around and kick his servants.  People wear many faces.  You, of all people, should understand that, Harry.”

 

 “So, Uncle Lucius could be acting?”

 

 “Have you seen how the Lord of the manor interacts with this Dark Lord?”

 

Harry hummed, as he searched his memories.  There was the day of the ritual, and all the times he witnessed Lucius bowing to the Dark Lord, but he was never there for their meetings.  “Not really.”

 

Lady Aloli nodded, as if Harry had just made her point.  “Based on what you know, can you judge who has the greater power?”

 

 “On the surface, the Dark Lord.”  Harry looked up at the Lady and gave her a pained smile.  “I need to be paying more attention to the world around me, don’t I?”

 

 “Good of you to say so, so that I don’t need to repeat myself.”

 

Harry sighed.  “So regardless of everything I feel, I still need to spend more time with the Dark Lord.”

 

 “No one can make you do what you don’t wish to do.”

 

 “And yet, if I don’t do it, I’ll never get what I want, yes?”

 

Lady Aloli smiled indulgently.  “You’re learning, Harry.  You’re learning.”

 

Harry didn’t know the Dark Lord’s schedule, or any other details of his life, so he could never determine when the Dark Lord would summon him.  All he knew was that he would be going about his day: in his lessons with Mr Praos and Draco, or out flying, or in the orangery, or sitting with Bellatrix, when a house-elf would pop in front of him, and in a quailing voice (the house-elves seemed to be abjectly terrified of the Dark Lord), they would tell Harry that the Dark Lord wished to see him.

 

In the days that followed, Harry did not know if he was anxiously eager for the summons, or if he was dreading it, but when the house-elf finally appeared, he knew that he was relieved.  Only, the relief quickly gave way to apprehension, and that persistent unhappiness that he felt of knowing that he would have to endure the Dark Lord’s presence, for however long the Dark Lord wanted.

 

There was some degree of irrationality to Harry’s sense of dread.  In truth, being in the Dark Lord’s presence was not disagreeable.  Harry didn’t think it was the man himself, though it was hard to label his own feelings with any degree of conviction.  Rather, it was everything else. The manor felt different when the Dark Lord's presence and magic tainted the halls.  His Aunt Narcissa became icier, and Draco became more nervous, even if he couldn't pinpoint why.  Perhaps it was to do with the unpredictability of the Dark Lord.  He was the sort who never felt the need to announce himself.  At times, the Dark Lord seemed to relish dramatic entrances, making his presence known to all, even the lowliest house elves.  Other times, he seemed to creep into the manor with the unobtrusiveness of a shadow, and the only hint of his presence was that unshakable sense of unease that sat low in one's gut.

 

The Dark Lord seem to exist under the assumption that everything around him was his.  He did not own Malfoy Manor, and yet he commanded everything within it with an unquestioned sort of certainty.  He acted more like the Head of house then Lucius did.  He never asked, he only took.  Was it any wonder then that Harry didn't want to be in the Dark Lord's presence?

 

But once the summons had come, there was no avoiding it, not because Harry feared the Dark Lord's wrath (as forbidding as it was), but because this was his way forward.  Harry nodded and thank the house elf, knowing that it was inappropriate to acknowledge the creatures, but it was clear that the house elf needed the reassurance after facing the overwhelming presence of Dark Lord. The house elf’s eyes were wide and watery, but the creature gave Harry grateful nod before disappearing with a pop.  With a deep breath to fortify his nerves, Harry made his way to the Dark Lord's preferred drawing room.

 

The drawing room was on the first floor, and like so many of the other rooms in the manor, it was a vast space, with glossy and veined marble floors, and beautiful dark-stained wainscoting.  However, unlike many of the other rooms in the manor, this particular drawing room did not have any portraits. Perhaps it was something to do with the fact that portraits had a tendency to talk, and the absence of portraits meant there was a greater degree of privacy. 

 

Instead of portraits, the room was decorated with large and beautiful mirrors, each with their own lavish and magical frames. And the mirrors weren't simply ordinary mirrors either; there was one that Harry quite liked which showed a person in a landscape that best suited their mood, whether that was a beach, or a forest, or the comfort of one’s bedroom; there was another mirror which show a person in the prime of their beauty.  Draco loved this mirror, but Harry found it to be very unnerving.  There was something about looking upon the slumberous eyes of his twenty-something year old self that unsettled him.  He could see shadows of his likeness to Bellatrix, in the defined angle of his jaw, the deep set of his eyes, and the smooth line of his nose. The older version of Harry always seem to wear a mysterious and brooding expression on his face.  It left Harry wondering what experiences he would have gone through in life to wear such an expression. The older Harry looked like he had seen too much, knew too much.

 

As Harry neared the drawing-room, the doors open themselves for him, silent and smooth like a bird unfurling its wings.  It wasn't anything to do with the magic of the manor, but was the Dark Lord’s own magic, which seem to permeate the floors, the walls, the very air itself.

 

Harry faltered at the entryway. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want this to be his life.  Was he really supposed to win the favor of someone who couldn't even save Bellatrix?  Someone who couldn't even hit Snape with a spell?  How could anyone even care about removing the muggle threat from the world when one didn't even have their loved ones to share that world with?  If only he had never thrown in his support for the Dark Lord, and instead tried to sculpt out his own fate from hard material of life.  But he was also able to see the arrogance of those thoughts.  If he could have carved out his own path, then he could have saved Bellatrix and Holly.  By himself, he could do very little.

 

It was with these thoughts in mind that he stepped forwards.  In addition to the mirrors that lined the walls, the drawing room contained a line of graceful floor-to-ceiling windows which let in the miserly amount of light that was able to seep past the gray skies.  Whether the day was cloudy or sunny, the Dark Lord's presence seem to eat up whenever light that existed. Was it because of the spell that brought him back, that the man seemed to be forever shrouded in a heavy mantle of darkness? Or was it because of his raven black hair, and the unreadable expression on his handsome face?

 

 “My Lord,” Harry greeted, his voice cool.  He bowed in a properly deferential manner, but the action felt like a farce. And yet, he could feel the change come over him as the Dark Lord's magic enveloped him.  It reminded him a little of his wand, the ‘betrayer.’ There wasn't any feeling of oiliness, but instead it was like a sweet whisper of power in his veins, an enticing pull.  There was something that was both dreadful and alluring about it. But it wasn't the sort of feeling that stirred him to action; instead, there was something sedating about it, something that made him want to thaw, to erase himself and meld into that wonderful, terrible feeling. He wondered if the Dark Lord felt it too; he wondered if this lay behind the reason that the Dark Lord continued to ask for him.

 

The Dark Lord gave Harry a barely perceptible nod in return for his greeting.  Sometimes Harry didn't even get a nod at all.  He had spoken the truth when Draco asked what they did in their meetings.  The Dark Lord didn't speak to him; he only sat, like a silent king upon his throne.

 

The Dark Lord appeared indifferent to what Harry did during these periods, almost as though he wasn't even aware of his presence. Sometimes, his dark eyes would be distant, seeing things that Harry couldn't even imagine. Other times, his eyelids would drift closed, so that the sweep of his lashes rested against his pale cheeks.  He did this today, and Harry found his eyes roving over the other man.

 

The Dark Lord sat in one of the ornate chairs, and despite the other furniture that littered the space around him, he made that single chair seem like the only piece of furniture in existence.  He dominated the room, even in his strange, absent state of mind.  One could not help but look at him.  When he was there, there was nothing else.

 

He wore sweeping black robes, meticulously tailored to fit his elegant form.  His hair was wavy, with a glossy blue-black sheen, and not a single thread was out of place. It was difficult to determine his age; his features were like someone in their mid thirties, and yet his eyes and the way he carried himself suggested the experience of a much older man.  He was achingly handsome, a painter's dream, but the beauty of his features was marred by a terrible scar up one side of his neck and across his cheek, the skin puckered, red, and uneven. They were the scars of Harry's efforts to bring the Dark Lord back to life, a constant reminder of that terrible day. 

 

But although such scars would make an ordinary person terribly self-conscious, the Dark Lord acted as if he was completely unaware of them.  In a strange and twisted way, it only enhanced his handsomeness, in a striking juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness. The scars suggested unknown depths and tragedy, like a rose blooming in a ravaged landscape. As much as Harry wanted to hate the Dark Lord, he also wanted to stare and stare, tracing that dark slash of his eyebrows or the high contours of his cheekbones. There was no question that he looked like a man that others would follow. His face was like the pied piper’s song.

 

But Harry wasn't about to stand around gawking at the other man as if it were the first time that his life was touched by beauty. He was here for a reason. The Dark Lord had promised him power for loyalty. Harry was here to cultivate his power, to claim his due.

 

He stepped towards the other man, footfalls light, almost silent, like an autumn breeze.   And although the Dark Lord must have sensed Harry drawing near to him, he did not open his eyes.  It felt wrong to be standing before the Dark Lord - seemed like it would have been more appropriate to kneel.  The Dark Lord's heavy presence encircled him, demanding submission, but Harry did not kneel, forced himself not to kneel.

 

The Dark Lord's presence may have held a dark allure. It may have been soothing in a way that defied rationality and reason.  But despite the intoxicating pull magic, Harry felt his heart began to race, and felt something within him tighten.  He didn't want to do this.  No, he did, didn't he?  He swallowed a feeling that he now identified as fear.  He could do this - he had to.

 

 “My Lord?” 

 

The other men's eyes remained closed, his brow smooth and unwrinkled, as if Harry's voice didn't even register in his consciousness.

 

 “My Lord?” Harry repeated, with more firmness in his voice.

 

This time, the Dark Lord's eyes shot open.  As quickly as a striking serpent, his hands reached forward, and fell upon Harry's shoulders, the grip alarmingly tight.  Harry gasped.  His instincts screamed panic but his feet felt encased in blocks of lead.  But Harry thoughts weren't on that painful grip, and he did not even consider squirming away.  He found himself pinned, more by the Dark Lord's gaze than by his grip.  Those dark eyes before him seemed as bottomless as the night sky, and he was as dazed as a clubbed fish.  He felt that he could become lost in the beautiful horror that lay there, lost and slowly unhinging.

 

The Dark Lord was looking right at him, but Harry was unsure of whether the man was seeing him, or looking past him. The Dark Lord's face was so white, like ivory, except for that network of scars that laced up the side of his face.  Harry forgot to breathe. The moment was too shrill, too jagged against his senses, and his magic vibrated within him, as though his skin was too tight and the magic wanted to leap out of him.

 

The Dark Lord's expression was that of a man hunted, pupils dilated.  “I have done terrible things,” he said, scarcely more than a whisper.

 

 “P-pardon?” Harry stammered, shocked.

 

The Dark Lord's eyes seem to clear. His nostrils flared as he realized the person that stood before him, and his grip tightened further, so painful that Harry inhaled sharply, knowing that he would bruise.

 

 “What have you seen?” the Dark Lord hissed, and seconds later, Harry felt the force of a battering ram upon his mind.  His scar seared his forehead, and there was a sensation of terrible pain, not of the body, but of the heart.

 

The Dark Lord seemed to rear back like a man struck, and his grip tightened even more, before he suddenly shoved Harry so hard that he stumbled back, causing him to land awkwardly upon the floor in a uncomfortable sprawl.

 

 “Get out,” the Dark Lord snarled.

 

Harry blink up at him, stunned by the sudden change in the man’s demeanour.

 

 “Get out!” the Dark Lord bellowed, and this time, Harry obeyed, scrambling upright and dashing out of the drawing-room as fast his feet would take him.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

It wasn't until Mr Snape was gone that Holly realized just how small his home in Spinner’s End really was. She may have been the sort of person who was able to remain hidden away in a single room, satisfied with living through books or her art, but the absence of Mr Snape gave her more courage to venture out and explore. Of course, she had already explored much of the house while Mr Snape was still living here, so in truth, there was really nothing more to look at, unless she wanted to sneak into Mr Snape’s bedroom (which she didn't).

 

Exploration was just a distraction anyway, albeit a rather ineffective one.  She preferred to try to make out the faded patterns of the peeling wallpaper, or to examine the titles in the bookshelf, than to face the monsters that lived within her mind.  Those grotesque beings already took enough of her life by tormenting her in her nightmares.  She did not want to give those demons within her food during her daylight hours as well.

 

But exploration offered no solace.  The only thing that kept her monsters at bay was her art, or Mr Snape’s sombre presence.  And Mr Snape was gone, busy at Hogwarts where he taught. But regardless of Mr Snape’s presence or absence, Holly was thankful that she had been permitted to stay.  This place, which bore the imprints of Mr Snape’s life, was a sanctuary to her.

 

With the passing of days, her nightmares were only getting worse.  Images of Bellatrix would meld with images of the Dark Lord, forming one terrible figure who was the very worst of both of them.  But that in itself wasn’t so terrible.  That was a terribleness that she expected, so that while it was painful and while it made her heart beat thump with the force of a hammer within her chest, it was a known element.  No, what bothered her the most were her dreams of Harry.  Such dreams always confused her.  Her dream self was incapable of learning, or at least it appeared that way in these instances.  She had lived her life seeing Harry in her dreams.  Was it any wonder that when she dreamed of him now, she would be fooled into believing that his presence was real?

 

He always came to her, just as Bellatrix was torturing her, or just as she was watching muggles die, in the most wretched and savage method possible.  She would feel the warmth of his hand upon her shoulder, a warmth that radiated inwards, like a balm for her fractured heart.  

 

 “Holly,” he would say, his voice so blessedly familiar.  “Wake up.  Wake up, Holly.”  And unable to help herself, she would fling her arms around him, clutching him as if he were a rope, and she had been drowning in a mire.

 

She would apologize to him then, a litany of “I’m sorrys,” even if she could never remember what she was sorry for.  She felt that she had somehow wronged him, and that was why he was gone, and yet the thoughts made no sense, because wasn’t he right here, with her?

 

“It’s okay,” his voice soothed, while his hands stroked her hair, and she would believe the nightmare over, believe herself safe.

 

But the nightmare was only beginning.

 

 “What secret are you keeping from me?” he would ask, his voice hypnotically musical. 

 

 “Nothing,” she would whisper, but it broke her to say it.  She wanted to tell him.  It was terrible to hide anything from it.  It felt worse than lying to herself.

 

 “What secret are you keeping?” he would repeat, his voice lower, sinking beneath her skin, oily and holding an soft edge of threat.

 

In some dreams, she would then spill forth the secrets that she had been so desperate to seal away.  In some others, she would continue to resist - to know that Harry wouldn’t understand.  Either way, it did not matter, because soon after, Harry would change.

 

 “You’ve betrayed me,” he would say to her, the words murmured gently into her hair, while the venom seeped into her heart. 

 

 “No,” she would deny.  “I’m trying to help.  Mama is a bad person.  The Dark Lord is a bad person.”

 

 “You don’t even understand what bad is, what evil is.  You are the one who has killed a man.  You are the one who brought mama to her knees.  You are the one who lied to me for months, and months.  You, Holly, are the bad one.”

 

 “No - It’s not true!”

 

 “It is!” he would hiss.  “You know it.  I don’t have to tell you.  It’s in your art, in the ugly and misshapen things that you create.  It’s in your magic, in the accidents you cause, the things you destroy, because you destroy all good things.  It’s in me, because I left you.  I had to leave you.  How could I call someone my sister when she would lie to me?  I would have done anything for you!  And you’ve put your trust in Snape?  He could never love you.  Look at where he has you: alone, in a dilapidated rubbish heap.”

 

 “No,” she would moan, a broken sound because she could not find her own sense of conviction.  She could not deny his words.

 

 “Everything you touch, you destroy,” he would say.  Lifting a hand, he would then caress her cheek.  “Look.  Look at my hand.  You destroy me.” And indeed, his hand was rotting away, the flesh turning a putrid yellow before blackening, the white of bone poking out before crumbling into coarse lumps.  

 

 “No,” she repeated, but he was pulling away from her, and as she looked up at his face, it was there that she would see the very heart of the nightmare itself.  The person would have Harry’s face, but it was a rotten thing, a thing of pus, and blood and peeling skin.  The eyes - the eyes were the most horrible part of all.  For the eyes, which were a mirror image of her own, were still Harry’s eyes. 

 

After such words, she thought the eyes would be filled with accusation, filled with antipathy.  But what was in his eyes was always worst.  Those green eyes would be filled with pain, the same as the pain of those muggles that Bellatrix had tortured to death. 

 

 ‘You have done this to me,’ his mouth would shape, but no words would come out - how could they when that tongue had rotted to a putrid blackness?  And it was then that she would scream herself to wakefulness.

 

Holly shivered.  It had always struck her as strange that those ear-piercing screams that seemed to split the very air were silent when she awoke.  Instead, she felt suffocated, her breaths coming in uneven gasps as her heart galloped wildly, trying to flee an inescapable enemy.

 

Just as strange was the fact that she often awoke in her tiny bed within the little upstairs bedroom.  Though Mr Snape had returned to Hogwarts, she still found herself sleeping in front of his bedroom door, as if the ghost of his presence were substitute enough for his presence itself.  It wasn’t true of course.  But it hinted that he returned home more often than she realized, didn’t it? 

 

He visited her regularly, usually on weekends.  He said it was to ensure that her childish carelessness hadn’t destroyed his house.  She thought he was right to say so.  Even Harry, within her dreams, had said her magic couldn’t be trusted.  But that didn’t stop her from fearing the ghosts of her past, and keeping her wand close.

 

Sometimes she worried that it was all just a delusion, spun out of her own yearning.  Sometimes she wondered if she put herself into bed, just to tell herself that Mr Snape had done it.  She found herself wondering how she had ever survived the Dark Forest in Germany, or the halls of Durmstrang, or the very existence of Gris Malmangeur, that terrible gargoyle beast.  And she realized that it wasn’t through her own strength or merit.  She had been more like an animal then, living with one ear always to the ground, and relying on Harry to watch her back.  Her instincts were a substitute for thought and planning.  Were those instincts now gone?

 

But such thoughts were unproductive.  It was in the past.  She had no desire to retread the paths of those memories.  Instead, she focused her attention on a potions course book she had found.  It was one of of the Hogwarts course books, a first year text.  It was a surprise to find such a thing amidst all of Mr Snape’s other books, but when she had first noticed it, her heart had thrummed with something akin to excitement and hope.

 

It wasn’t that Holly had conceived of a love for potions.  But potions was Mr Snape’s livelihood.  To be able to peel away the layers of that mysterious discipline made her think that she could somehow earn Mr Snape’s positive regard.  She had taught herself how to begin prepping simple potions ingredients.  Mightn’t she teach herself more?  Perhaps even impress Mr Snape?  And if she impressed him, perhaps he would be glad that he let her stay.  Perhaps she could loosen the tight hold she had on herself, and trust that she wouldn’t be discarded at the next stumble that she made.  She hated to be so small, both in body and in spirit.  She wanted to be better.

 

Days bled, one into another.  Those turned into weeks, which slid by at a crawling pace until they were past, and she was wondering where the time had gone.  She spent her hours pouring over the potions book, and exorcising her emotions and memories through her art.  Harry was always in her thoughts.  But so too was Mr Snape.  He visited her without fail, and when he learned that she was attempting to learn potions theory, she almost thought that there was a flash of pleasure in his eyes, a moment of pride.  Perhaps it was wishful thinking.

 

But the nights.  Nights were a terrible thing.  And without Harry - the real Harry - to guard her soul, she felt herself slowly deteriorate.  She was bad, wasn’t she?  Maybe that was the reason she couldn’t let go of her wand, her ‘betrayer.’  She remember being in Durmstrang and being told of the wand’s affinity for Dark Magic, and Dark witches and wizards.  Those words had meant little to her at the time.  But she had learned since then.  Dark Magic was more than just a label.  In the world outside of the Malfoys and the Blacks, Dark Magic was seen as a vile thing.  An evil thing.

 

Yes, her days were gentle things.  She crafted images, and learned the foundational steps of potions.  But night after night, she failed Harry, and his words ricocheted through her very being.  And she was starting to believe him, that false Harry.  They weren’t really Harry’s words anyway.  They were her own.  Perhaps there was a reason she had never explained her wand to Mr Snape (not that he was the sort that would ask).  Perhaps there was a reason that she could not stop stroking that smooth piece of wood, letting it’s greasy slickness run through her, feeling a pleasurable shudder through her scar.  Maybe she was the evil one, all along.


	5. Chapter 5

**Draco**

 

Harry had changed. Or at least Draco thought so, though he did not voice these thoughts out loud.  Mere weeks ago, Harry had been called into a meeting with the Dark Lord, which was hardly an unusual occurrence, and Harry had stumbled out of that room wild-eyed, reminding Draco of that look he sometimes got in his eyes when he had been too reckless on the broom and had needlessly tempted death.  And yet, when Draco asked about it, Harry had only pursed his lips and shook his head.  It hardly seemed fair considering that Draco was Harry’s best friend.  Didn’t that mean that Harry should tell him  _ everything _ ?

 

Maddeningly, Harry never spoke of it at all.  And as tempting as the idea of pressuring Harry was, Draco knew better than to attempt it. Harry was too stubborn.  And though Draco could forgive his best friend for it, it was still a major fault.  But then again, no one was perfect, and Harry was miles and away far more interesting than Greg and Vince ever were.  Besides, Draco could be stubborn too, though he preferred to think of himself as being strong-willed.

 

If that had been all that happened, Draco wouldn't have given it a second thought.  But that wasn't all that happened. Harry was different. The question was: was it a good change or a bad one?  In the months after his sister had been taken and the Dark Lord returned, Harry was listless.  But as he began to emerge from his grief, that listlessness lessened, and became a preliminary sort of animation.  But now it seems as if some strange in a fire had been lit, and Harry was burning with a determination that Draco struggled to understand. Draco had asked Harry about it one day as they were walking across the Malfoy grounds to the broom shed.

 

Harry answered: “I'm going to find my sister.”

 

Draco hummed.  Hadn't Harry always been planning to find his sister?  “All right,” Draco said, unsure if he really understood.

 

But there must have been something in Draco's tone of voice because Harry said: “I'm going to find my sister.  _ Without _ anyone else's help.”

 

Draco had frowned at that.  He was willing to help Harry. But if Draco was perfectly honest with himself, he knew that he would be fine if Holly never returned. If Holly was gone then Draco would have his best friend all to himself. And truth be told, Draco didn't like to share.  But that didn't mean that Draco wouldn't help Harry.  And didn't his father always say that to help someone was to have them in your debt?  Draco didn't exactly want to have Harry in his debt, but the idea of having some degree of power over his friend was appealing.  It meant that Draco was  _ needed _ . And who didn't want to be needed?

 

 “You don't want my help?” Draco questioned.

 

 “You can help me,” Harry said, “but -”

 

 “But what? You don't think I can’t help? I can help!”

 

Harry paused in his step. “How?”

 

Draco pressed his lips together in contemplation.  He and Harry were close enough that Harry knew most of what Draco knew. All Draco really had left were family secrets and those sore and soft spots in his own heart that he only dared to revealed to his mother in his most vulnerable moments.  But Harry was practically family, wasn't he? They were blood related, and his father was always saying that blood will tell.

 

 “I know some things,” Draco said, slyness slipping into his voice.

 

Harry tilted his head, his eyebrows sweeping upwards questioningly. “Like what?”

 

Draco felt a flicker of hesitation but he quickly brushed it aside.  “I know of a way that we can spy on my father's office.  And I know the secret entrance too.”

 

Harry's eyes widened. “Really? And you never told me?”

 

Draco shuffled his feet before forcing himself to stop. “Only family members are supposed to know. But, well, you’re family.”

 

 “Will you show me?”

 

Draco pouted.  “You said you wanted to go flying.”

 

 “We can go flying later. I want to see this secret entrance into your father's office.”

 

Draco gave Harry a mulish look.

 

 “I just want to see it,” Harry coaxed. “Just see it. Then we can go flying, all right?”

 

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes dramatically. 

 

 “Isn't that what best friends do?” Harry added, his expression puppyish.

 

 “Fine,” Draco yielded.  He liked it when Harry pleaded.  He knew that Harry was just doing it to get his own way, but it still made Draco feel powerful and generous.

 

 “Great!”

 

Draco smiled like an indulgent king, before leading the way back to the manor.

 

True to his word, Harry was satisfied with a brief glimpse into the secret corridor that allowed access to Draco's father's office.  And flying with Harry was as fantastically fun as ever.  But after showing Harry the means to spy on his father's office, the change in Harry only seemed to flourish and expand.  And to Draco's consternation, the flame in Harry grew to wildfire proportions, and as days trickled into weeks, Harry began to utter a phrase that Draco loathed: “I'm busy.”

 

 “Busy with what?” Draco demanded one day, after their lessons with Mr Praos. 

 

 “Finding Holly.  I can't miss any meetings.  Everyone that Uncle Lucius meets with has a different mission, and one of those people's missions  _ must _ be to find Holly.”

 

 “You’re going to spy on my father?”

 

Harry bit down on his lower lip, eyebrows drawing together guiltily.  “It's for a good cause.  Holly needs me! She's all alone with - with  _ Snape _ !”

 

A putrid jealousy began to spread in his gut.  Couldn’t Harry think about anything other than Holly?  “I'm sure Holly's fine.  Snape might be weird and gloomy but he wouldn't actually ever hurt anyone. He's a professor!”

 

 “He hurt me!” Harry cried and Draco flinched back from the outburst.  “Did Snape ever consider what I want? Even if he isn't hurting her, who knows what kind of horrible place he's keeping her in.  Your father has said that no one in Britain lives as well as we do here at Malfoy manor.  That means that anywhere that Holly is worse than here!”

 

Draco hadn't ever considered that fact and he didn't doubt its veracity, but he didn't feel like conceding the point to Harry. “That doesn't mean that Holly is living in bad conditions.  Besides, you told me yourself that you can feel her through your link. So you know she's fine.”

 

Harry answered that with an obstinate look and crossed his arms.

 

 “And didn't Mr Praos say that proper exercise and relaxation can help you think better?  That means that it's better for you to go flying with me than to be cramped away, peeping into my father's office.”

 

 “Your father has an important meeting today. I  _ can't _ miss it. I'll go flying with you tomorrow, all right?”

 

 “The clouds are coming in! It'll probably rain tomorrow.”

 

 “We can still fly in the rain.”

 

Draco scowled.  “It isn't as fun.”

 

 “We can do other stuff then.”

 

 “I don't want to do other stuff!”

 

A stubborn combativeness had entered into Harry's green eyes, and Draco knew that he couldn't win this.  The idea of not getting his way made him miserable.  But the idea of losing Harry's friendship made him feel sick with a strange fear, as though Harry was too valuable to lose.

 

A childish part of him was already screaming its tantrum, but Draco shoved that side of himself away.  His mother had once told him, in gentle tones, that he couldn't always get what he wanted, that life was occasionally unfair, no matter how hard she tried to protect him from that unfairness.  Draco remembered that he didn't want to believe it at the time.  But the older he got, the truer it became, no matter how hard Draco tried to deny it.

 

So, in flat tones, Draco said: “Fine. We can go flying tomorrow.”

 

Harry gave him a relieved smile.  “I look forward to it. See you tomorrow then?”

 

Draco sighed.  “Yeah.”

 

Draco made his way towards his playroom, disinterested in the idea of flying by himself.  A part of him resented having Harry as a best friend.  Prior to meeting Harry, playing on his own or being content with Vince and Greg had been easy.  But Harry was far and away the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.  Not all of that excitement was good. The return of Dark Lord wasn't good. But Harry had changed Draco's life, reforming his outlook, reshaping his perspective, so that things could never go back to how they were.

 

As he tossed one unexciting toy away for the next, Draco deliberated on what he would do.  He thought about telling his father that Harry was spying on many of his meetings, but quickly discarded the idea. Not only would it infuriate his father; it would also cause him to lose his friendship with Harry.  The idea of Harry hating him made him feel sick.  

 

He thought about sabotaging Harry. If he did that then maybe Holly would never come back.  Draco liked the idea of Holly never coming back.  But as with his first thought, Draco discarded it knowing that Harry would hate him if his plan was discovered. But what if Draco were to help Harry to get Holly back?  The idea brought about a feeling of revulsion, and he was about to toss it aside but then he found himself thinking about it more deeply.

 

Suppose he did help to bring back Holly. It would be annoying if Holly was back at the manor, but even when Holly had been staying here, Draco only ever saw her at lessons and at meals.  The rest of the time, Holly tucked herself away in her room and never showed her face. Furthermore, Harry used to complain about how Holly never wanted to do anything with him.  In a flash of insight, Draco thought back all the times when he didn't appreciate a toy until he got bored of it and gave it away to either Vince or Greg.  He recalled how once that toy was out of his grasp, he desperately wanted it back, and yet, when he forced Vince or Greg to return it, he would be bored of it again. Maybe - maybe Harry was the same.  Maybe when Harry got Holly back, he would finally see just how tiresome his lump of a sister was.  The idea was brilliant.  He had a plan.  Finally, Draco would be able to prove once and for all that he was a far superior friend than Holly could ever be.

 

-o-

 

**Severus Snape**

 

The first chaotic month and a half of the school year had passed, and the students were now settling into some semblance of a routine, much to Severus’s relief.  Suffering the presence of those impertinent pinheads was sometimes more of a burden than he could bear, which made the idea of taking responsibility for a young child in his own home seem like a particularly malicious trick of the gods.  And yet, he preferred Holly's presence to the vast majority of the students and even the staff at Hogwarts.  At least the girl was adept at keeping her mouth shut.

 

But despite Severus's generally positive impressions of Holly, he was unable to shake his sense of doubt.  Whenever the child crossed his mind, he wondered whether he should finally tell Albus.  And yet, since he had told the old man of the Dark Lord's return, Albus had been busier than ever, his pale eyes losing a hint of that ubiquitous twinkle.  There was no sense in adding to Albus’ burden.  At least this was what he told himself.

 

But even when Severus wasn’t contemplating giving up Holly to a better home, he still worried about her.  At least, that was how he labelled the persistent sense of disquiet that gnawed at the edges of his mind like rats nibbling on walls, foreboding trouble. Being surrounded by the moronic but bright-eyed faces of the children of Hogwarts was a piercing reminder that Holly was far from normal. But then what merit was there in being normal?

 

As if by clockwork, he spent his weekdays listing all the reasons why Holly should go to a new home. Perhaps she needed some sort of professional healer care or perhaps she needed the presence of other children.  Perhaps she needed caregivers who could give her affection, in a way that he never could.  But by the weekend, when he returned to Spinner's End, he would see that small and silent face, and wonder if he was deceiving himself by seeing eagerness in those green eyes, the exact shade as Lily’s.  How could he possibly believe that the child could be happy to see him?  Had her life in Malfoy manor really being so terrible, so bereft of care and warmth?  How could he think to give up someone who looked at him like that?

 

He felt some degree of regret that he could not visit her on a more regular basis. While the schedule of Hogwarts might be regular, the actions of students could never be entirely predicted.  True, the hormones that drove the students caused them to do the same sort of boneheaded things that they thought would impress their peers, but these sorts of things were never on a schedule.  More than once, Severus thought his life would be significantly easier if the students could simply schedule their dunderheaded acts. Thank goodness Holly wasn't a hormone-driven adolescent.  At least not yet.

 

Because of his irregular schedule, he returned to Spinner's End later than usual, cursing the lack of a functioning floo connection between Hogwarts and his house.  But prior to taking on Holly as his ward, he never saw the sense of it. His career at Hogwarts was an unhappy necessity, while his house in Spinner’s End was just a place to lay his head and work on his potions in peace during the summer months. What reason could have possibly existed for traversing between the two places?

 

He entered the house late that night, far later than usual, the inky blackness of the sky making the brick houses looks like blots of indistinguishable dark shapes. In the distance, he heard someone coughing, a wet and wracking sound that brought to mind the old mill workers toiling away in insalubrious conditions.  What had he been thinking, bringing a child here? With a grimace, he unlocked his door and entered into the silent shadows of his house.  Briefly, he wondered if Holly was sleeping in front of his bedroom door.  He knew he should break her of such a terrible habit, but neither of them had ever spoken of it.

 

He walked through the kitchen towards the staircase, easily navigating through the dark, when something white on the kitchen table caught his eye. The child was usually quite tidy, almost as if she did not want any trace of her existence to be seen in the house.  Why would she leave something on the kitchen table?  Curiosity snagged, he turned on the light.

 

The coloured inks on the table gave hints of what he might see.  He had guessed that Holly like to draw, but he'd never before seen any of her works.  And why should he want to?  The 'artwork’ of children was usually offensive to one's sense of aesthetics and could only be admired by the blind eye of loving parents.  And yet, knowing this, his curiosity was in no way lessened. What would her art say about her?

 

As he gazed down upon the page, he gasped and quickly threw the paper down as if it were something venomous, seeping toxins into his bloodstream.  His heart was hammering in his chest, and his muscles tensed, ready for a fight but wouldn't come. He felt like it was the war again, as if life and death were something he had to once again face.  He felt that terrible anguish and hopelessness of knowing that Lily was in danger and that there was nothing that he could do to save her.  He had hoped never to feel such emotions again; he had thought his heart was deadened.  It was a terrible thing to learn that he was wrong.

 

Legs weak, he slumped down on one of the kitchen chairs.  What kind of magic was this? From the corner of his eye he could see the illustration writhing, the thin lines like tendrils of Devil's Snare.  Motion was rather standard when it came to magical artworks.  What wasn't standard was for artwork to project emotions and impressions into one's mind, like some ghastly and mutated form of a Legilimency attack. He had been curious to know what existed within Holly's mind, but he wasn't expecting this.

 

And yet what kind of man was he if he couldn't face what he was seeing?  This was the art of a  _ child _ .  And he was a grown man who had seen war and death and had served a Dark Lord with a penchant for torture. He was a man who had felt all the shades of pain that life could dole out.  He could handle one young girl's art.

 

Palms clammy, he reached towards the sheet of paper, noting that there were more drawings beneath it. This time, he prepared himself by erecting his Occlumency shields.  Though Holly’s art continued to project their dark and twisted emotions, with his Occlumency Shields, it was more like watching a muggle film than experiencing the emotions himself.  As he peered down at the image of a monstrous gargoyle-like face, he was able to objectively determine that Holly had a nascent talent for art.  The proportions of the creature were strange and slightly asymmetrical, but there was a terrible intensity to the eyes as if the creature were really watching him, judging him, and damning him. Was this some figment of her imagination?  Or was this creature real?

 

He set down the drawing and picked up another.  This one depicted a boy with hair a mass of dark onyx, and large expressive eyes.  The details of the face were blurred, and the folds of the robe looked a little strange.  The picture felt melancholy, conveying loneliness in every line and shadow.  Something about the boy made him seem unreachable, and beneath the creeping sense of isolation was a thread of pain, skirting the boundary of betrayal.

 

The next image was that of a woman, with a wild mane of dark hair, a jester’s grin, and look in her eyes that bespoke of madness.  The likeness wasn't exact, but he recognized Bellatrix’s face immediately, and shuddered.  This drawing emanated a hatred so intense that Severus wasn't certain whether he was experiencing Holly's emotions or his own.  His fingers twitched, and his muscles quivered.  It may have been a mere drawing, but he wanted nothing more than to pull out his wand and blast that face into ashes, or failing that, it would be just as rewarding to be able to wrap his hands around that pale neck and  _ squeeze _ .

 

With a grimace, he set down the picture and picked up the final one on the table.  This one looked to be yet another face, but the drawing was incomplete, the features no more than ill-defined lines, as if placed by an uncertain hand.  Yearning and hope mingled with quiet underlying sadness.  The picture may have been unfinished, but for reasons that he couldn't fully articulate, he found this one the hardest to look at.

 

He stared into the dark hallway and that led towards the staircase, and wondered what he was doing.  The drawings had given him more of an insight into Holly's mind than he could have imagined.  It reminded him of the first time he had met Holly, and had peered into her mind using Legilimency, except instead of looking at memories, he had looked into her heart.  But what kind of child had such a heart?  Was this what his heart look like when he was Holly's age?  He clenched his fists as he remembered the sound of his drunken father’s footsteps in this very kitchen, portending spittle filled rages and swinging fists.  That was decades ago, but his hatred felt as fresh now as it did then.

 

He wasn't prepared to deal with a child. Seeing Holly's art was a stark reminder of that fact.  How had he ever deluded himself into thinking that he was equipped for this?  He would tell Albus.  It was the most sensible thing to do.  Thus decided, he turned off the kitchen lights, and climbed the stairs, wondering again if he would see that small body curled up in a ball on the floor, like an unwanted mongrel burdened with all of life’s cruelties, wondering what it meant.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

Mr Snape had returned.  Holly sensed this as soon as she woke up in her bed, with blankets cocooning her as if she had been tucked away by gentle hands. It bothered her that he hadn't returned yesterday, even though she tried to remind herself that it would be unreasonable to become dependent on his presence.  After all, Mr Snape was a busy man, and had generously allowed her to stay in his home.  What right did she have to expect anything of him?

 

Throwing on her robes, she checked the small mirror in the bathroom and aggressively ran a brush through her hair.  Living with upper crust pure-bloods had instilled the importance of proper presentation and she couldn't imagine dashing down the stairs as a disheveled mess, no matter how eager she was to see Mr Snape.  Besides, she respected the older man far too much.  She didn't dare to tear through his house like some sort of untamed urchin.

 

She made her way down the stairs, careful to avoid the two creaky steps, as if silence here was as much an imperative as it had been in Durmstrang.  Mr Snape was seated at the breakfast table, his attention fixed on the newspaper.  Holly felt a warm and growing expansiveness in her chest.  Spinner's End was now familiar, but Mr Snape’s presence made it feel like home.  But a flash of white caught her attention, and Holly gasped when she realized what was on the table.

 

She had been sitting at the kitchen table last night, waiting for Mr Snape to come home, and was drawing to pass the time.  She was usually so careful to return those drawings to her bedroom where they could be stored away from judging eyes.  But since Mr Snape had been so much later than usual, her tiredness had made her careless. She had forgotten all about them and now Mr Snape had seen them all.

 

Holly was no fool. She knew that the things that she drew couldn't be considered normal by any measure.  Much of her drawing techniques had been gleaned from books that she read from the Malfoy Library, and of those books had contained images of things like portraits, or landscapes, or still life.  The book had stressed that magical art was about capturing the likeness of something or conveying beauty.  But there was no beauty in Holly's art.  Not when she was so tainted by the horrors of life.

 

She wanted to turn around and head back up the stairs.  She wanted to deny the reality of the scene, and she looked towards Mr Snape with dread.  But he was still reading the newspaper, as if today was another ordinary day.  Had he somehow missed the drawings?  It seems unlikely; they were right in front of him.

 

 “Do plan to stand there all morning?”

 

Mr Snape's voice caused her to start.  He had lowered his newspaper, and was looking at her expectantly. Aside from her slightly raised eyebrows, his expression was bland.  There was no disgust, fear or scorn, so Holly willed her feet forward. She sat at the table, unable to avoid the sight of the drawings.  She meant to reach for her plate of food, but instead she snatched at the drawings, hiding them on her lap.  Such things should never be exposed to the light of day.  The gesture had been far too obvious.  Surely Mr. Snape would remark on it, and what would she say?  How could she explain?  

 

She could not bring herself to look up at him, but she sensed that he was about to speak, and fortified her emotional walls.  She thought she could handle anything.  Anything, except if he meant to her to send her away.  She could bear anything but that.

 

Finally he broke the silence.  “Do you need me to supply you with more paper?”

 

Eyes wide, Holly's eyes snapped up to meet Mr Snape’s.

 

 “More paper?” 

 

Mr Snape's eyes narrowed. “Did you not hear me the first time?”

 

She felt heat staining her cheeks, and looked away.  Mr Snape's words were harsh.  And yet, the implication of the word staggered Holly.  There was no mention of disapproval or disdain, of being sent away.  A tightness that she didn't realize she was holding on to loosened, and slipped away. 

 

 “Yes, please,” she said shyly. “I'd like more paper.” She peeked up at Mr Snape, and he gave her a curt nod before returning his attention to the paper.  It was hard to bite back her smile.  The exchange had been no more than a few words, but it had been like being tossed into an endless pit before being pulled out again.  Her relief made her feel light-headed, almost giddy.  No more words had been said at breakfast.  It wasn't until the weekend was over, and Mr Snape had returned to Hogwarts, that Holly could fully make sense of her thoughts and emotions.  She felt accepted.  By treating her art like it was something ordinary, Mr Snape had told her, not in words but in actions, that her drawings were not consequential.  And they weren't. What she had been working on had been no more than doodles.  She felt like she could breathe a little better.  She felt like maybe, her problems weren't so immense after all.

 

Days slid away into weeks, and Holly felt her confidence slowly growing.  She studied potions, read books, or worked on her art with a stronger sense of purpose.  Mr Snape's visits filled her with a greater feeling of gladness, though at times, he would give her long and inscrutable look as if something troubled him.  These looks tarnished the otherwise brightness of her life, but as long as Mr Snape did not plan to send Holly away, she could endure a thousand of such troubled looks.  But there was one thing that remained a blight in her life: Harry.

 

Days were easy now.  Days were filled with tasks to accomplish, with things to learn, with skills to sharpen.  But nights were when she was at her weakest.  Her nightmares persisted, until she found herself wondering if she really even knew who Harry was anymore.  She pushed herself to link with him as often as she could, but the price of magic was high, and she felt her strength bleeding away.  She needed to see him. She needed to speak to him.  Seeing him was likely impossible, but there had to be a way to communicate with him somehow.  As her mind quested for possibilities, she cast her thoughts back to the past.  She had successfully communicated with Mr Snape in secret.  Couldn't she do it again?  But whenever she thought about sending a message to Harry, she wavered.

 

Mr Snape had said that her safety depended on secrecy.  He had stressed that she must not reveal herself, and in her earlier fear and uncertainty, it had been easy enough to keep that promise.  She never left the house, never spoke to anyone except Mr Snape.  She had never done anything to give him reason to doubt her.  And yet, she remembered him writing (back when they were still communicating by letters) that he was impressed with her ability to communicate without detection.  If she had done it once, she could do it again.  And yet, the risk!  Even if she could send secret messages to Harry, what would she do if Mr Snape found out?  She would have to ensure that he didn’t.  

  
And as everything else in her life got better, the nightmares became ever more twisted and sinister.  The dreams seem to linger in her veins, and imprint themselves upon her skin.  Those dreams reminded her that she wasn’t a good person.  Those dreams, as sickening as they were, shaped her decision.  She felt like she was losing herself.  She  _ had _ to speak to Harry.  But how?  Mr Snape had a post owl, but he had brought it with him to Hogwarts.  She would have to rely on her magic.  And once the decision was made, she decided that no matter what it took, she would speak to Harry.  She would hear from her brother again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Harry**

 

Discovering anything about Holly's whereabouts was proving to be a frustrating experience.  Despite sitting in on many of Lucius’s meetings and spying on the rest, information about Holly was as rare as rainfall in the desert. And what about all those meetings that occurred when Harry was at his lessons? He had tried to skip one once, but that only caused Mr Praos, Aunt Narcissa, and even Draco to worry, and Harry did not have a high tolerance for guilt.  Anger would have been one thing, but he wilted under that solicitous concern. Harry hated when other people worried about him.  He couldn't bring himself to repay kindness with callousness.

 

As for Lucius's meetings, Harry was learning ever more about the Dark Lord's plans, but that wasn't the information that he wanted. Yes, the Dark Lord seemed to be infiltrating the Ministry with impressively expedient swiftness, but while politics would have interested Harry under any other circumstance, he could scarcely think about the state of the magical world while he was so invested in finding his sister.   To make matters more difficult, the meetings that he spied on often seemed ambiguous or even incomprehensible.  What was he to make of it, when Lucius’s associates would say things like: “It’s complete” or “No sign of it in the south”?   And since Harry was spying on these meetings, he couldn't even ask his Uncle Lucius to clarify.

 

Despite Harry's determination to have nothing to do with the Dark Lord, he couldn't help picking up details about the way that the Dark Lord's followers seem to view him.   Perhaps the habits that Lady Aloli taught him were now too deeply ingrained, affixing themselves as part of his personality, but he felt compelled to pay attention.  Whether he served the Dark Lord or not, knowledge was still power. And what Harry noticed was this: not only were the followers deferential and afraid of the Dark Lord; there was another underlying emotion as well.  Uncertainty.  Nervousness. Skittishness.  Repetition of the word ‘erratic.’  ‘Unpredictable.’  Were their loyalties not as firm as one would assume? Harry wasn't sure, but he kept the details stored away in the corners of his mind.

 

But Harry was doing more than merely spying on his uncle's meetings; he knew that information alone would not be enough.  Though he had assured his Aunt Narcissa that he would not use his wand, he was already guiltily and surreptitiously planning on breaking his promise.  During one of their rainy day exploration of the manor, Harry and Draco had been rummaging around in one of the attics, and Harry had discovered a duelling dummy meant for spell practice. Draco had had no interest in the item, but as soon as Harry found out what it was, he was already beginning to imagine possibilities. Not only might he learn spells with which to protect himself and Holly, but he could also practice curses to use on Snape, and he planned on returning later to clear up space so that he could use the dummy.  Briefly, he had even considered enlisting Draco's help, but he knew that his friend would just whinge and gripe and be bored out of his mind.  And though Draco was aware (and jealous) that Harry had a wand, Harry let his friend believe that he never used it, if only to spare him from further jealousy.  If Harry revealed that he wanted to use the practice dummy, Draco would want to too, and would be upset that Harry refused to share his wand.  No, better to keep Draco out of the whole matter.  But such a thing was easier said than done.

 

And yet, Harry was determined to use the dummy, and with the help of Dobby (who seem to need the distraction from losing his beloved Mistress Holly), he gradually managed to clear away a space, with the knick knacks and furniture pushed to one side of the attic, and an open area on the other.  It wasn't the same as practicing with a real person, but Harry wanted - no needed - to hone his power.  He could not tolerate the idea of being weak.   He could not bear the idea of Snape ever getting the best of him.   And maybe, if he kept practicing and pushing himself, then he wouldn't even need the Dark Lord's power after all. He would be enough on his own.

 

It wasn't always easy to get away from Draco.  Ever since Harry began to emerge from the depths of his grief, he noticed that Draco had latched onto him, as if filling that space that was once Holly’s. And ever since Harry had been moved to a bedroom adjacent to Draco's, Draco had even started sneaking into Harry’s room at night, not that this bothered Harry at all.  He was a twin.  He felt like half a person without Holly.  And with Draco there, he felt like that hole in his heart was at least filled with _something_.  Someone.  Someone who was his best friend.

 

It was Vincent and Gregory he had to thank for having any periods of time away from Draco.  And though he knew that it ate away at his time with his Aunt Narcissa in the orangery, this was too important.  He had to forge himself into something better, something stronger.  He had to grapple with his fate, seize it tight, wrench it to the ground and dominate it.  He would accept nothing less.

 

In the beginning, his practice had consisted of firing off all the spells in his arsenal at the dummy.  He did this until he had a bedrock of spells that he could easily draw on: stunners, disarming spells, soporifics and a number of other defensive magics.  But Harry did not want to simply fight defensively, as easily as it might have come to him.  He needed to learn offensive magic as well.  In the past, it had been difficult to ever want to hurt anyone.  But he quickly learned that so long as he could picture Snape’s sallow and miserable face on the dummy, he was capable of darker and darker spells.  Someday he would see Snape bleed.  Someday, Snape would scream.  And these thoughts drove Harry further on.

 

But it wasn’t enough.  He was starting to take ever more pride in his spell casting prowess.  But what of his speed and reflexes?  Could he duck?  Run?  Dodge?  If he ever faced Snape, or any other threats, they would hardly be standing still.  The Dark Lord hadn’t even been able to hit Snape on that fateful day.  Harry knew he had to work on building his agility.  And after some thought, he realized that to that end, he could recruit Dobby to help.

 

 “Dobby!”

 

Seconds later, the house-elf appeared in the open space in the attic, hands clasped together, and expression hopeful (though not anywhere near as worshipful as the way the diminutive creature had looked at Holly).

 

 “Master Harry calls for Dobby?”

 

 “I need to practice my fight -” he paused to correct himself, “dueling skills.  And I need a moving target.”

 

Dobby’s tennis-ball like eyes bulged to even more comical proportions, his skin blanching ghoulishly.  “M-master Harry wishes to use _me_ as a target?”

 

Harry paled.  “No.  No!  How could you think that, Dobby!”  He shook his head.  

 

 “Oh!  Dobby has made a grievous assumption!  Dobby spoke too soon!  Dobby must punish himself!” and moments later, Dobby proceeded to slam what looked like an ugly old bicorn statue down on his hand, yowling like a banshee.

 

 “Stop!” Harry commanded, unable to bear Dobby’s theatrical self-abuse.  How Holly ever had the patience for it, he couldn’t understand.  

 

Lips wobbling, Dobby paused, and then obeyed.

 

 “Now put down that - thing you're holding.  Good.  Thank you Dobby.  Ah!  And _don’t_ start crying!”

 

Dobby pressed his lips together, his tiny body trembling as he did his best to suppress his tears.   He looked both woeful, but also pleased to have received Harry’s praise.

 

 “As I was saying earlier, I want to practice my dueling.” He looked over towards the dummy.  “And I was wondering whether it was possible for your magic to make that dummy move around.  Fast, mind. It wouldn't do me any good to practice with a slow-moving target.  I'm not sure if you'll be able to do it though because the dummy is pretty magic resistant.”

 

 “Dobby will do it!  Dobby is happy to do it!” And thinning his eyes into slits, Dobby looks towards the dummy with intense concentration.  For half a minute, nothing happened. But then, the dummy began to twitch, and moments later, it leapt a foot to the right.   Shortly after that, it moved further to the right, and then to the left, and Harry broke into an excited grin.  Dobby had made it work!  Aiming his wand, Harry shot off a stunner, but the dummy slid out of the way and Harry missed.  And yet, despite his failure, Harry was thrilled.  His whole body felt primed with anticipation, and though he knew that the dummy presented no threat, he still felt a frisson run through him.

 

After several more casts, he managed to hit the dummy.  And though his ratio of hits to misses was worse than he expected, bit by bit, he was improving.  He became bold. Defensive spells turned into offensive spells.   He lost track of time. He paid no heed to the shakiness of his limbs.  His hubris conquered his prudence.  And in a moment, he carelessly sent off a blasting spell, forgetting his surroundings, forgetting about the fact that his hit rate was nowhere near a hundred percent.  He missed the dummy.   And he felt his stomach drop as the spell nearly grazed the dummy and instead hit a section of wall with a heart-stopping boom.

 

Pieces of plaster and wood flew everywhere, and though Harry tried to duck out of the way, he was too exposed.  It was only Dobby's quick action that kept him from being skewered with a hundred splinters of wood.  But Harry had no opportunity to thank Dobby, because heartbeats later, he heard the crack of apparition as his Aunt Narcissa appeared before him, wide-eyed with worry.

 

 “What’s going on?  Harry?”

 

As realization and the cool breeze of the outside air hit him, Harry was aware of the terrible magnitude of his actions. He went from the peaks of elation to the deepest trough of horror, feeling like the worst person to have ever lived. What had he done?

 

 “I - I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small, cracking.

 

Narcissa’s eyes widened.  “This was your doing?   Not the house-elf’s?”

 

Harry hadn't even considered using Dobby as a scapegoat, but even when facing Narcissa’s coming disappointment, he couldn't do it.

 

 “I’m sorry.  I didn’t - I didn’t think.”

 

 “You were using your magic? Using your wand?”

 

 “I -” he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.  “Yes.”

 

 “I trusted you, Harry.”  Her words were as cutting as an executioner's axe, though her tone held no accusation; only sorrow.  That sad tone of voice seemed to rip straight through him, like a hand squeezing his heart, extracting all his guilt to dye his soul with its ugly blemish.

 

 “I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could say. He was ready to be punished. He deserved to be punished.

 

 “I thought I could count on you.  It wounds me deeply to learn that I was wrong.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stepping towards him, but still he did not dare to look up.

 

 “The Manor can be fixed. The destruction was regrettable, but that isn't what troubles me.  You could hurt Draco with that wand.  You could - you've already hurt yourself.  I'm going to have to ask you to give up your wand.”

 

Harry looked up at her then, his eyes wide with dismay.  He shook his head clutching his wand close. His wand was his link to Holly.  His link to power.  He _couldn’t_ give it up.  He loved his Aunt Narcissa.  But he was Bellatrix’s son.  And if Bellatrix didn’t listen to Aunt Cissy, then Harry didn’t have to either.

 

Narcissa must have seen the obstinate light in Harry’s eyes, because her expression became even more regretful.  “I will not take your wand away by force.  I’m no tyrant.  But - if you keep using your wand, you pose a threat to my son. And I will let _nothing_ threaten my son.” A hard look came into her eyes, and a maggot of dread burrowed into Harry's gut. “If you insist on keeping your wand, then you cannot stay here. You will have to leave.”

 

Harry felt as if his heart had just been shoved off a ledge into a pit of spikes.  He felt as if he could see his Aunt Narcissa withdrawing her love, and with it, she took all the air from his lungs as well. She would really force him to leave? She was willing to abandon him?  But where would he go? And what of his mama?  He couldn't leave her by herself in Malfoy manor.  He couldn't leave. He needed the resources here. He wouldn't be able to find Holly on his own, wand or no wand.

 

He was cornered.  His choices were all removed from the table. His muscles shook.  Not since the Dark Lord's return had Harry ever felt so sickeningly helpless.  He lifted up his wand arm, a gesture of capitulation.  Transfiguring a decorative bowl into a rectangular box, Narcissa watched as Harry relinquished his wand. With a nod that held a touch of empathy, Narcissa lidded the box and tucked it away in her robes.

 

 “Thank you, Harry.”

 

Harry couldn't answer her. It took all his effort to maintain his pride, to keep the pressure behind his eyes in check so that no tears would fall down his cheeks. He wouldn't show weakness. Not here. But he couldn't remain. He couldn't bear to look upon Narcissa’s pale and now gentle eyes, filled with a soft understanding.  It wasn’t understanding he wanted. It was his wand.

 

Chin tilted proudly upwards, he wound past Narcissa, towards the attic exit and down the stairs, barely hearing her as she commanded Dobby to contact professional builders who could repair the structure and magic of the broken walls.

 

-o-

 

To Harry, losing his wand was crippling. He may have disliked the oily magic, disliked the abrasions that marred his skin.  But being magically incapacitated was worse. And on top of all that, his relationship with his Aunt Narcissa was now cracked.  She may have given him sympathetic looks, and treated him with the same kindness as ever, but to Harry, she was the woman who took away his power.  How could he forgive that?

 

And what must Holly think?  He could feel her magic as she reached out to him, but could she sense his feelings in return?  He couldn’t sense their link.  Not when they were so far apart, and not without his wand.  But surely Holly knew that Harry wouldn’t abandon her, didn’t she?  She _had_ to know.  Harry couldn’t believe otherwise.

 

With his wand now out of his grasp, Harry found himself growing more dependent on Dobby, and though he still lacked Holly’s patience when it came to Dobby, the house-elf didn’t mind.  If anything, Harry was starting to see a worshipful gleam in the house-elf’s eyes, and it made him uneasy.  He didn’t feel comfortable with the idea of being worshipped - not even by a house-elf.  And wand or not, Harry’s determination to find Holly hadn’t lessened, in spite of the new cliff-face that seemed to have been set in his path.  Harry might not have been as avid a reader as Holly, but he read now.

 

It was evening, and he was sitting cross-legged on his four-poster bed, reading about Hogwarts.  Though he knew he would be going to Hogwarts in a few years, this wasn’t why he was reading about the school.  No, what Harry wanted was to be informed.  Hogwarts was Snape’s environment.  And if learning about Hogwarts could provide him an advantage, no matter how small, then he would learn everything he could about the blasted place.

 

Dobby had created a magical ball of light that hovered above his head, and with that, he quickly lost sense of the darkness that painted the skies outside.

 

 “Reading?  Again?”

 

Harry started and glanced towards the stretch of wall where he heard the voice, knowing that there was a secret passage there between his room and the room next door.

 

 “Draco.  I didn’t even hear you come in.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes.  “I could tell.”  He padded over to Harry’s bed and threw himself down with abandon, lacing his fingers behind his head so that he could angle it to observe Harry.

 

 “I would ask what you’re reading, but I bet it’s _boring_.”

 

Harry felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards.  “You’re right.  It is.  He lifted the cover to show Draco, and Draco wrinkled his nose.

 

 “You’re not going to keep reading that, are you?  Cause if you are, I’m going to have to use force to get you to stop.”

 

 “I thought you said you _wanted_ to help me find Holly.”

 

Draco’s brows flew up.  “You think your sister is in Hogwarts?”

 

Harry frowned.  “No.  But Snape is.  And Snape knows where Holly is.”

 

 “Hmm.  Well, I know that Hogwarts has powerful protective enchantments.  I’m not sure if it’s possible to break in there.  Why?” His eyes brightened.  “Do you have a plan?  Are we going to storm Hogwarts?”

 

Harry chuckled and shook his head.  “I wish.  This book is useless so far.”  With a sigh, he closed it and set it aside, glancing up towards the window and blinking with surprise as the lateness of the hour registered in his mind.

 

Suddenly aware of his exhaustion, he let himself fall backwards next to Draco, and stared up at the canopy of his bed.  His eyes were drifting closed when Draco eventually spoke.

 

 “What’s going on with you and my parents?”

 

Harry’s eyes flew open, and he turned his head to look at his friend.  But Draco wasn’t facing him, and instead, kept his eyes pinned the canopy that Harry was examining moments ago.  

 

 “What do you mean?” Harry asked.

 

Draco’s lips thinned into a line.  “Something is different.  With you and my parents.”  Finally, the blond turned to look at Harry.  “I know you think I didn’t notice.  That you were getting close to my parents, that is.  But I did notice.”  His brows pulled together.  “You know, I used to wish I had a brother.  But then, I thought it would be dreadful to have to share my parents.  But -” Draco looked away, back up at the canopy, “you’re different.  I like that my parents like you.  It _proves_ that you deserve to be my best friend.”

 

 “Oh.”  If Draco hadn’t been so pensive, the words would have warmed Harry.  Instead, he felt confused.

 

The silence returned; extended itself.  “What is it that you aren’t tell me?” Draco finally asked.  When he faced Harry again, his expression was a stubborn hook that wouldn’t let go.  “Don’t you dare say ‘nothing.’  Cause I know it’s not nothing. Tell me why parents are different around you.”

 

 “I -” he let out a heavy sigh, “it’s hard to explain.” It was too hard to meet Draco’s eyes so he stared upwards instead.  “I had a meeting with the Dark Lord a while ago and - it was strange.  I -” he shook his head, “I think I did something to make him angry, and I haven’t seen him since.  Haven’t _wanted_ to see him.” It was mostly true. “I suppose your father must know.  He’s very loyal to the Dark Lord.  He hasn’t said anything to me, but I think he doesn’t like it that I’m not - not trying to win the favour of the Dark Lord.  I’ve seen - his looks of disapproval.”  When Harry sneaked a glance over at Draco, the other boy’s eyes were wide.

 

 “You don’t follow the Dark Lord?”  Harry thought he detected a hint of awe in his friend’s words, but he couldn’t make sense of it so he swept it aside.

 

 “I don’t know,” Harry admitted.  “I don’t _want_ to.”

 

 “Is that why things are weird between you and my mother?”

 

Harry furrowed his brows, feeling a sharp pang in his chest, an imprint of betrayal.  “No.  That’s - that’s something different.”

 

 “Next to me and my father, you’re, you know, my mother’s favourite person!  What happened, Harry?”

 

 “I -” Harry felt as if he were on a precipice.  He _wanted_ to unburden the boulders on his chest.  He wanted relief from the emotions that made him drag his steps through life, made him tired without physical exertion.  But this was Draco’s _mother_.  How could he say anything negative about Aunt Narcissa to Draco’s face?

 

But Draco seemed to have sensed Harry’s hesitation.  “Just _tell_ me.  I won’t tell my mother.  I didn’t tell her that you let me use that racing broom.”

 

 “This isn’t the same -”

 

 “So?  Just _tell_ me.”

 

 “Well -” Harry faltered, biting down on his lower lip.  What if it made Draco angry?  He wasn’t afraid of Draco’s temper.  But until now, he had never considered the idea that he could be _friendless_.  The thought frosted his heart with cold fear.

 

 “Tell.  Me.”

 

Harry let out a ragged sigh.  “Fine.  Your mother took away my wand.”

 

 “She did?  She takes away my stuff sometimes if I’ve broken rules.  But she always gives them back.  Did you ask her to give it back?”

 

Harry grimaced.  “I know she won’t give it back to me.”

 

 “What if I asked her for you?”

 

 “No!  No.  Don’t do that.  She doesn’t know that you know -”

 

 “Oh.  I s’pose you’d get in more trouble if I asked her.”

 

 “Yeah.”  

 

They returned their attention to the canopy.  After staring at it for long enough, one started to see patterns forming in the embroidered garlands and scrolls.  

 

Minutes later, Draco said: “I thought you didn’t even use that wand.  Is it really such a big deal if my mother took it?”

 

 “I -” oh Merlin, Harry wasn’t prepared to admit that he had been lying to Draco, and choked on his words.

 

 “Harry?  Are you all right?”

 

 “I’m fine!” he squeaked.  And then in a more reasonable tone: “I’m fine.  I - I was using the wand.  A bit.”

 

At that, Draco sat up and looked down at Harry, pale eyes flaring hot.  “You were?  Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.  “I promised your mom that I wouldn’t even tell you about the wand.  It’s - it’s dangerous.”

 

 “You said that before.  But I don’t see how your wand can be dangerous if _you_ can use it.  What kind of magic were you even - what spells were you using?”

 

Harry let his arms fall back to his side, but didn’t open his eyes.  “I was using it to keep in contact with Holly.”

 

 “Oh.”

 

Harry dared a peek at Draco.

 

 “That’s it?” Draco asked, as if unable to believe that Harry would use magic for something so mundane.

 

He thought about lying.  But Draco’s eyes paralyzed him, demanding nothing less than the truth.  “No.  I - I know some defensive spells.  And offensive spells.”

 

 “And you didn’t tell me?!  I thought we were friends!”

 

 “I couldn’t!”  Harry burst out. “You wouldn’t understand!”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes.  “Maybe if you had _told_ me.” He stood up abruptly, causing Harry to sit up in surprise.

 

 “Draco?  Where are you going?”

 

Draco turned back to look at him.  When his spoke, his voice was ice.  “Back to my room.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Harry**

 

Harry slept fitfully that night. He hadn't realized how accustomed he had grown to Draco hogging up space on his bed, mumbling in his sleep, and trying to tug away his blankets. But even worse than trying to fall asleep was waking up the next morning.  Once the wispy scenes of his dreams faded into the sharp world of reality, his first thought was of Holly.  She was gone. But chasing that thought was what had happened the previous night.  Draco. Harry groaned, his limbs and chest suddenly feeling a thousand times heavier than before.  He buried his face into the pillow.  How was he supposed to face his day?

 

He would have to talk to Draco. He would have to explain and try to apologize. Harry was, first and foremost, a wizard of action.  He didn't know whether or not he could get Draco to listen, but he would try. Thus resolved, he pushed himself up and out of bed.

 

His poor sleep meant that he had slept in far later than usual, but it was the weekend and he had no lessons to force a strict schedule. He didn't bother to make himself presentable.  If it had been anyone else, he would have made a cursory effort, but Draco had already see him at his most unkempt, more times than Harry could count.

 

It was only a matter of seconds to enter Draco's room through the secret passage that connected the chambers.  Their rooms were similar in size, and both had a soft, pale green color scheme (in different shades), but Draco's room contained far more personalized touches: posters on the walls, books on the shelf, and toys neatly set aside (only because there was a house elf to take care of such mundane tasks).

 

 “Draco?”

 

Harry received no answer. He ventured more deeply into Draco's room, not quite as comfortable as he would have felt in his own room.  Only Draco seemed to be unconcerned by such things as other people's personal boundaries, but Harry was fully aware that this space wasn't his territory.

 

 “Draco?” he said, louder this time.

 

But after searching Draco's rooms, he realized that the other boy was gone.  It struck him as strange; Draco love to sleep in on weekends and usually, dragging him out of bed was like trying to drag a lazy cat out of its favorite spot under a sunbeam. It troubled him. It was almost as if Draco knew that Harry would seek him out, and was deliberately trying to avoid him.  Harry hoped that that wasn't the case.

 

Once he was properly dressed and tidied up, Harry venture to down the stairs to breakfast.  To his disappointment, Draco wasn't at the breakfast table either. Did Draco decide to go out flying without him?  Appetite absent, he only managed to force down a couple of pieces of bacon before he had enough.

 

He was on his way outside, when he was startled by a pop and reached for his wand only to remember, in a heart stumbling moment, that his Aunt Narcissa had taken it away.  But it was only Dobby, and Dobby presented no danger.  Nonetheless, Dobby’s presence was unexpected.  If one of the Malfoys had been looking for him, they would have sent their own house-elf.  Did Harry have some unexpected guests?

 

 “Dobby is very sorry for interrupting Master Harry!”

 

As Harry looked closer at the house-elf, he saw that the creature was almost quivering. But Dobby’s expression wasn't one of fear - the house-elf’s enormous eyes were luminous, as if Dobby had been gifted a golden vision from Merlin himself. Why was Dobby looking so rapturous?

 

 “Master Harry must please come with Dobby back to Master Harry's room.”

 

Harry drew his brows together. “What's going on, Dobby?”

 

 “Please!” the house-elf entreated. “Dobby has wonderful, wonderful news, but Master Harry must come with Dobby.  Dobby’s news cannot be heard by other ears.”

 

Harry inhaled sharply, his heart beginning to skip and patter, an excited drum beat in his chest.

 

 “Take me there,” Harry ordered, knowing that it was inappropriate to rely on a house-elf for apparition, but at the moment, decorum was no concern, and having house-elf magic was better than having _no_ magic. Seconds later, he was back in his room.

 

 “Now tell me!”

 

 “Yes Master Harry, of course!   Dobby has received a message from Mistress Holly!”

 

 “What?” Harry cried, barely able to articulate anything else in his shock.  “When?  How?”

 

Dobby handed Harry a folded parchment, and Harry barely heard the house elf as he said: “Just this moment, Master Harry.”

 

The first part of the letter was addressed to Dobby.

 

 _I’m sorry to have left you so abruptly,_ Holly had written to the house-elf. _I hope you're all right, Dobby.  I miss you dearly.  You must keep this letter a secret, and only Harry may know.  My safety depends on it, and I know I can trust you._ _~~If~~ _ _When Harry writes me a reply, can you make sure to send it to me?  In secret, of course.  I know I can depend on you. Please give this message to Harry.  The rest of it is for him._

 

_Harry,_

 

 _I hope that this message reaches you.  I'm not sure whether this will work, but I needed to hear from you. I haven't felt you connecting to me with our magic, and I hope you aren't upset with me.  if you are, I'm sorry.  So, so sorry. I_ _~~feel~~ _ _know I've betrayed your trust. But I still love you more than anything, you have to believe that._ ~~_Do you still love me?_~~ _I miss you and I wish you were here,_ ~~_even if I know that you wouldn’t like it._~~ _I hope that you are well.  I’m doing fine, so you don’t need to worry about me.  Please send your reply with Dobby.  I think his magic is powerful enough to send messages._

 

_Love forever,_

 

_Holly_

 

By the time Harry was done reading, there were tears spilling from his eyes.  The letter was the sharpest joy and bluntest pain he had ever felt.  At some point, his legs had failed to support his weight and he had crumbled into a nearby sofa.  He felt wrung out and raw.  He had to write her back.

 

 “Dobby!  A quill and parchment!  Please!”

 

Dobby nodded, keen to obey.  By the time Harry had crafted a letter to his sister, and had given his reply to Dobby, he had been swept away by the floating airiness of hope. He longed to share his joy.  But who could he share it with?  A cloud passed across his heart, as he remembered his tiff with Draco. Surely he could fix the situation.  Hope made him feel like anything was possible.  He would go downstairs, find Draco, and mend their friendship.  And somehow, everything would work out.  He was sure of it.

 

Filled with resolution, Harry marched back downstairs. He had just spotted a flash of white-gold hair outside one of the drawing room windows, and was about to make his way outside when a loud crack cut through the air, halting him in his steps.  He turned around, and his eyes grew wide as he took in the sight of his uncle, bedraggled, nostrils flaring, and speckled with blood.  Harry knew that Lucius had had plans to be out all weekend, but Lucius had said it was on matters of business.  Just what had that business involved?

 

 “Uncle?”

 

But Lucius was already storming towards him, and clutched him by his arm, his grip cruel and vice-like.

 

 “You’re coming with me,” Lucius said.

 

And before Harry could ask why or where, he felt himself squeezed and compressed, as he side-along apparated with his uncle.

 

They reappeared in an unfamiliar neighbourhood, the houses tudor-styled cream coloured with brown beams. Harry glanced up at his uncle to try and slip in a question, but the words dried up when he spotted a strange mask with snake-like eye slits covering his uncle’s face. He was aware of what the masks represented.  This was Dark Lord business.

 

But Harry didn’t want to deal with the Dark Lord - had determined that he didn’t need the other man - and he dug his heels into the ground.

 

 “What is this about?” Harry demanded, trying to pull his arm away.

 

 “Don’t be stubborn Harry.  I thought you had better sense.  But then again, if you had more sense, you wouldn’t have provoked the Dark Lord in the first place, leading us to this impasse.”

 

 “I didn’t provoke the Dark Lord!”

 

 “That doesn’t matter now.  The Dark Lord has become - wild.  Dangerous.  He will not listen to our advice, and his magic will not let any of us near.” Lucius pulled on Harry’s arm, but after stumbling a few steps, Harry regained his bearings and refused to let himself be dragged again.

 

 “What do you mean dangerous?  Why did you bring me here?”

 

Lucius narrowed his eyes.  “You, of all people, should understand the importance of careful planning.  The Dark Lord’s - unpredictable - actions threaten to ruin our carefully laid plans, regardless of the fact of whether he formulated them or not.  The Dark Lord seems to have a strange and inexplicable bond with you.   _You_ , Harry, are my last hope for manag - aiding the master.” And with that, Lucius gave Harry and even harder yank, and Harry let himself be pulled, as his mind was busy with making sense of Lucius’s words.

 

They entered into one of the houses, and Harry’s eyes widened to see a number of other masked and hooded followers.  But then, Lucius continued further into the house where the feeling of magic grew ever more ominous.  It was the Dark Lord’s magic.  And it had been a long time since Harry had felt it so close.

 

Before Harry could utter another protest, Lucius released his arm, opened a door, and shoved Harry forward.  The unexpected action caused Harry to trip and fall onto his hands and knees, onto a wet surface that squelched beneath him.  But there was no opportunity for Harry to rage about his uncle’s harsh treatments, for the room that he had entered was dripping in blood, the scent of it so sharp and hot that Harry felt that he would soon retch.  Somehow, he managed to hold the bile in.

 

The walls and even the window were shiny and slick with blood, and pinkish-white chunks that Harry didn’t want to think about.  Even the ceiling was arced and criss-crossed with long red splashes, telling a tale of multiple wounds inflicted.  But Harry’s attention wasn’t on the walls or ceiling.  It was on the Dark Lord, who was on his knees in the middle of the room.  And though the man’s robes may have been spelled to repel all liquids, his face was marked with red splatters, vivid against his white skin.  The Dark Lord’s eyes were huge and unfocused.  But as he took in Harry’s presence, something flickered in them.

 

 “Harry?”

 

Harry wondered if his senses were lying to him by seeing vulnerability in those eyes, by hearing vulnerability in that voice.

 

 “M-my Lord?”

 

The Dark Lord blinked.  “You’re real?  You’re really here?”

 

But before Harry could answer, the Dark Lord was shuffling towards him, both hands reaching out to grasp both of Harry’s arms, and once again, Harry was being compressed and crammed into a too-small tube as he was once again apparated.

 

Despite the Dark Lord’s chaotic state, despite his near-feral state of mind, the Dark Lord apparated with barely a whisper - a testament to his immense magical power.  They reappeared back in the Malfoy manor, in the familiar drawing room that the Dark Lord favoured, but this time, the Dark Lord was holding onto him, and not letting go.

 

 “My Lord?” Harry ventured, wondering if by speaking, he would only incur the Dark Lord’s fury.  And though he had just witnessed a scene that would have traumatized most wizards, though the Dark Lord still smelled coppery with blood, Harry wasn’t afraid.

 

 “Why did it have to be you?” The Dark Lord’s eyes roamed across Harry’s face, eyes accusing and brows furrowed.  “Why _you_ ?  Why am I besieged with emotions?  What did you _do_ to me?  My return wasn’t meant to be like this!  Before, I was driven by my ambitions, by my thirst for power.  Power would have given me all I wanted.  Power would have given me the world.  But now -” his expression darkened, “all I feel is rage.   _Pain_ .  I would reach into my chest and rip out my heart if it assured me that I would stop _feeling_ .  What have you _done_ to me?”

 

Harry shook his head.  He didn’t know what to say.  He had only been acting on his mama’s command, on instinct.  He felt his breaths become shallow with distress, felt his growing confusion and an unwanted sense of empathy.  He was afraid to hear what the Dark Lord would reveal.  

 

 “The only thing that stills my anger, stops the pain, is your presence,” the Dark Lord continued, and Harry inhaled sharply, mind and ears buzzing with confusion.

 

 “It is _intolerable_ ,” the Dark Lord growled.  “I will not be incumbent upon your presence.” The Dark Lord squeezed Harry’s arms even more tightly before releasing him so quickly that Harry’s balance swayed.  Less than a heartbeat later, the Dark Lord’s wand was pointed at his neck.  “I should kill you now.  I should end this.”

 

Harry froze. Was this it?  Was this how he would die?  Just when his hope had finally bloomed, his life would be cut short?  No.  He wouldn’t stand for this.  He might have been wandless and essentially powerless, but he refused to die.  He narrowed his eyes at the older man, muscles quivering in readiness.

 

But then, the Dark Lord hissed out a long exhale and lowered his wand.  His near-black eyes had taken on an edge of frost, as he continued to look at Harry.  “Your life belongs to me.  You are _mine_ , Harry.  Never forget that.  You will come to me when I command you.”  The Dark Lord finally looked away.  “You are dismissed.”

 

Unable to make sense of the twists and turns in the Dark Lord’s mind, Harry forced himself onto his feet, and obeyed the other man’s commands.  It wasn’t until he was back in his room that he allowed himself to think, to feel.  And when Harry realized what he was feeling, he battered himself with self-loathing.  Because how could it be, that he was glad?  Glad that the Dark Lord needed his presence.  Glad that the Dark Lord needed _him_?  But Harry refused to take his thoughts any further.  To know that he was needed was one thing.  But Harry was terrified to ever examine, let alone admit, that he might need the Dark Lord as well.

 

-o-

 

**Severus Snape**

 

 “Pumpkin pasties,” Severus ground out, hating Albus’s ridiculous passwords.  The gargoyle that marked the entrance to the Headmaster’s office stepped aside.  He stepped upon the circular staircase that moved him upwards at a snail-like crawl, but although he was impatient to learn why Albus had summoned him, he refused to submit to the indignity of actually _acting_ impatient.  Cutting words were his weapon of choice, not puerile fidgeting.

 

 “Ah, there you are, Severus!” Albus greeted, blue eyes holding a hint of a twinkle.  Albus’s eyes were never quite so bright these days; not since Severus had informed him of the Dark Lord’s return.  It was difficult for Severus to decide if this was a relief, or something regrettable.

 

 “Would you care for a sherbert lemon?” the Headmaster asked as Severus took his seat in the circular office, the multitude of portraits looking down at him with varying expressions, from curiosity to coldness.

 

Severus eyed the offered sweets with an expression he usually gave to the students’ failed potions.

 

 “No,” Severus answered, “I’d rather not.”  And before he could let Albus make some remark about how fond he was of the sweets, he said: “Why did you wish to see me?”

 

 “Are you quite certain you don’t wish for a sherbert lemon?”

 

Severus’s muscles stiffened, though he was careful to let no sign of it show.  That Albus had deflected his question with sweets was a bad sign.  A very bad sign.  He made no answer and instead, gave Albus a long look, which did nothing to ruffle Albus’s placid composure.

 

 “I will confess, dear friend, that when you had told me that you weren't willing to keep an eye on Voldemort's actions for us, I was quite disappointed.  It's a terrible blow to our side to lose your eyes.”

 

Severus grimaced.  It was uncomfortable, hearing the Dark Lord addressed by his name, and furthermore he did not like the direction in which this conversation was headed.  But he knew better than to speak and unwittingly reveal information.

 

 “But recently, something interesting has come to my attention.” Albus paused. “Is there something you wish to tell me, Severus?”

 

 “Don't treat me like one of your students, Albus.  Surely you know better than that.”

 

It was that that finally sparked a twinkle in the Headmaster's eyes. “You were my student once.”

 

 “And those days are long past.”

 

Albus sighed. “How time flies.”

 

Severus merely arched his brows.

 

 “Did you know,” Albus said, his tone conversational, “that you have been receiving messages to your home?”

 

Severus's felt himself become more tense, his mind and body primed for danger. What had that child been up to? And had Albus been spying on his house? He knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but nonetheless, the idea was infuriating. But still, he would not reveal anything, no matter how much his mind warned of the direness of the situation.  Why hadn't he simply told Albus of the girl weeks ago?  Curse those pleading green eyes of hers!

 

Voice indifferent, he said:  “Messages?”

 

 “Yes, Severus.  Imagine my surprise.  I wondered if you hadn't secretly found a lover. It would please me greatly to see you happy.”

 

This conversation was quickly becoming mortifying.

 

 “But no.  The messages weren't being sent to and from your home to the school.  I realized further information was needed.” Albus paused to give him a long look.  “You should know that you have my complete trust, Severus. I did not, for a second, doubt your intentions. But you know the man that I am.”

 

 “A nosy one?” Severus intoned irritably.

 

Albus chuckled. “I prefer to see myself as curious.  I felt that I was missing some vital piece of information.  But what, I wasn’t certain. So, I began to cast my net far and wide, seeking information.  In my search, I decided to look in on the Potter twins as well.  Last I had heard, they were being moved to the Americas, and what could be safer than the distance of an ocean?  But it seems that information may have been wrong.  A deeper inquiry led only to dead ends.

 

 “And yet, I’ve always maintained my extensive network.  Those old pure-bloods are right about one thing: who you know is important.  The only problem is that many of them don’t believe muggleborns to be worth knowing, while I do.  A shame, isn’t it?  How much they limit themselves.  I quite accidentally stumbled upon a very interesting piece of information from one of my academic contacts in Durmstrang.  Apparently, not too long ago, she met with a pair of twins by the name of Harry and Holly Black.  The names are curious, are they not?  And there are no records of such twins being born to any of the Blacks here in Britain.  Nor on the continent.”

 

Albus’s blue eyes were piercing, seeing far too much despite Severus’s firmly placed Occlumency shields.  

 

 “I believe I understand now, why you will not spy on Voldemort, Severus.  And while I believe your intentions to be pure, I think it’s time we paid a visit to your home.”

 

Severus wanted to protest.  He wanted to firmly assure Albus that he had the situation well in hand.  And yet, hadn’t he been arguing with himself about finally alleviating himself of his responsibility towards the girl?  Wasn’t this for the best?  He couldn’t justify keeping Holly in his home, all alone.  He should have spoken of this to Albus weeks ago, to avoid this confrontation.  And so, instead of arguing, Severus merely nodded.

 

Albus stood.  “Shall we?”

 

Severus tightened his jaw, to keep himself from bursting out: ‘now?’  He felt he should at least give Holly warning.  And yet, what could he say to the child?  No.  This was for the best.

 

Emotionless, he forced himself to say: “By all means.”

 

At the door to his house in Spinner’s End, with Albus by his side, Severus felt no relief.  This would be over soon, and he could wash his hands of the child, but all he felt was an inner sort of void.  At no point did he lower his Occlumency shields.  At no point did he dare to let himself _feel_ , because if he had to feel this moment, he did not think that he could bear it.

 

He stepped into the familiar, ugly kitchen.  The lights were on, and his eyes immediately fell upon the girl, who had been drawing, but had quickly turned the parchments face down to conceal those images that displayed so much of who she was.  Her eyes widened, and there was something akin to delight there.  He knew she hadn’t been expecting him.  But then, Albus appeared behind him, and her expression became shuttered, guarded.

 

 “Mr Snape?” she ventured.

 

 “Ah,” said Albus, voice warm and grandfatherly.  “You must be Holly.”

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

Holly looked from Mr Snape to the old man next to him, her heart sprinting like a startled rabbit thumping its feet against her ribs.  The delight that she felt from Mr Snape’s unexpected visit was overrun by the disquiet that was setting all her nerves on edge.  The old man’s garbs were ridiculous next to the serene black of Mr Snape’s robes.  The old man had half-moon spectacles, and his robes were a vivid ultramarine, that seemed to brighten his too-knowing blue eyes.  Those eyes wore an expression of kindness, and immediately, Holly decided that she did not trust him.  Someone who looked upon strangers with such kindness was _sure_ to have an ulterior motive.

 

It took her a moment to realize that the old man was speaking, was now looking at her expectantly, awaiting a reply.

 

 “Pardon?” she managed to force out, looking up at Mr Snape in hopes of some sort of hint, or some measure of support, but seeing only impassiveness.

 

The old man’s eyes seemed to shine with some inner merriment.  “I introduced myself as Professor Dumbledore, though I can see you have far more interest in dear Severus here than a simple old man such as myself.  How are you, Holly?”

 

 “I’m well, sir,” Holly answered, thinking that Mr Snape must have given Professor Dumbledore her name.  But why?  What was going on?

 

 “I can see that you have many questions, and I have questions for you as well, if you don’t mind an old man’s inquisitiveness.  May I sit?”

 

It was hardly Holly’s place to refuse him, so she nodded.  But the fact that Mr Snape remained standing only increased the fraying of her nerves.

 

Professor Dumbledore seemed to read her thoughts, for his next words were: “Come.  Sit, Severus.  No need to act the stranger in your own home, isn’t that right?” His blue eyes crinkled at Holly, as if the two of them were sharing a joke, but Holly felt no desire to laugh.  At this point, she just wanted the Professor to go away.  The easy authority he showed - the fact that he could order Mr Snape about in his own home - frightened her.

 

 “There, that’s rather more cozy isn’t it?  And perhaps some tea as well?”  And without even pulling out his wand, Professor Dumbledore had Mr Snape’s kettle filled up with water, and then sitting on the stove to boil, while three mismatched cups flew out of the cupboards to sit neatly on the table, a tea-bag dropping into each one.  “Aren’t muggle methods quite fascinating?  They get on very well without magic, don’t they?  Quite ingenious!”

 

Mr Snape’s jaw clenched, barely perceptibly, and Holly frowned.  What was this all about?  Why was Professor Dumbledore making small talk, as if they were at one of Aunt Narcissa’s tea parties instead of whatever this was?

 

 “Now tell me, Holly.  How did you come to be here?  It was my understanding that you were living with your Aunt and Uncle?  In - ah - what was it - Little Whinging, was it?”

 

Holly’s eyes widened and she looked towards Mr Snape yet again.  This time, he gave the smallest of nods, as if confirming that it was safe to answer Professor Dumbledore.  Still, this wasn’t a story that Holly was happy to tell.

 

 “Yes, we were living with the mu -” she cut herself off.  Professor Dumbledore had said ‘muggles’ and not ‘mudbloods’ and she could not be careless with her words.  “-muggles.”

 

 “We?”

 

Holly hissed in a breath.  She had been careless after all.

 

 “I presume that means your brother, Harry?”

 

Holly pulled her brows downwards, but then nodded, unable to meet the old man’s eyes.  But she wasn’t speaking for Professor Dumbledore’s sake.  She was speaking because Mr Snape wanted her to.

 

 “Why did you leave?”

 

Holly frowned.  “We didn’t leave.  We were _saved_.”

 

 “Saved?” Professor Dumbledore echoed.

 

Holly gave a curt nod.  “Yes.  Saved.  Saved from the cupboard.  Saved from the being screamed at and hit.  Saved from having no food.”

 

There was a long and almost glutted silence after that.  Holly hoped there would be no more questions.  But her hopes were soon dashed.  Professor Dumbledore continued to ask more questions, some of which were easy to answer, but others that felt like forcing open old wounds and making them bleed.

 

Why did she have to endure this?  Why did Professor Dumbledore need to know?  There must have been something in her face, because after more questions than she could count, Mr Snape suddenly declared: “Enough!  Enough of this Albus.”

 

Professor Dumbledore blinked.  “Ah.  You’re quite right, Severus.  The hour grows late, and I imagine that you are tired, dear Holly.  Which brings us to the purpose of this visit.”

 

There was more?  Once again, Mr Snape’s face offered no clues.

 

 “We’re going to have to find you a home.”

 

Holly blinked, wondering if she had misheard.  “Home?  But -” she flicked a glance over at Mr Snape, “this is my home.”

 

 “It’s not secure here,” Professor Dumbledore said. “We need to bring you somewhere safer.  You need a family.”

 

 “I _have_ a family.”  Harry was her family.  And Mr Snape?  Well, she wanted him to be family, but she wasn’t certain that the man felt the same, and didn’t dare to push his generosity.  “And I _am_ safe here!”

 

 “Not safe enough,” Professor Dumbledore said gently.  “This is for the best.  You cannot remain here.”

 

No!  But how could this be?  Did Mr Snape not want her anymore?  The mugs, which were now filled with hot tea, began to rattle as Holly’s control over her magic slipped.  With a look, Professor Dumbledore’s magic stopped the rattling, but now it was the table that was starting to quake.

 

 “Holly -” Mr Snape said, his voice a warning, and Holly dug her nails into her palm, trying to force herself to be calm.  Why was this happening?  But moments later, it suddenly hit her.  The letters she had sent to Harry.  She had been caught.  She had promised Mr Snape that she wouldn’t reveal herself, and she had broken that promise.  And now, he didn’t want her anymore.  It was all her fault!

 

Her emotions were spiraling out of her control, and a sob burst from her lips before she could rein it in.  She shook her head, as if to deny the situation, as if it would lessen the stinging pressure behind her eyes, but it didn’t help.

 

Her eyes were enormous as she looked up at Mr Snape.  “I-I’m sorry,” she said, words ragged as he breaths. “I’m s-sorry!  Please don’t m-make me leave!  Please!”

 

 “No one is _making_ you leave, dear child,” Professor Dumbledore said.  “This is a matter of your safety.”

 

But Holly paid the Professor no heed.  “P-please, Mr Snape!  Please let me s-stay!”

 

There was something unreadable in Mr Snape’s eyes.  It gave her a flickering sense of hope.  But then, he looked away, and the hope was snuffed, leaving aside no possibilities.  Her tears were flowing freely now, and her nose was blocked so that she couldn’t breath.  She felt that she had brought this upon herself.

 

 “This will be for the best, you’ll see,” Professor Dumbledore tried to reassure her.  “We’ll find you a home with someone close to you in age.  Then you won’t feel so alone.”

 

 “But I don’t _want_ another home!” Holly cried, and mugs on the table cracked and shattered with a shrill jangle.  Yet, before those shards of ceramic could do any harm, Professor Dumbledore had already contained the tabletop in a sphere of magic, and moments later, the mugs were fitting themselves back together, tea obediently following soon after.

 

 “Holly.”  This time it was Mr Snape who spoke, and Holly looked up at him with a hopeful expression.  “Albus - Professor Dumbledore is right.  This is for the best.”

 

Holly shook her head.  “But -”

 

Mr Snape narrowed his eyes.  “Do you question my judgement?”

 

At that, Holly wilted, trembling as she stared down at her lap.  “No, sir.”

 

 “You will be going to a new home.  And you will treat your guardians with the same respect you have given me,” Mr Snape continued.

 

 “Yes, sir.”

 

 “You will behave yourself.”

 

Holly sniffed.  “Yes, sir.”

 

 “Severus, don’t you think the child needs a little more gentleness?”  But Holly ignored Professor Dumbledore.  She did not care what the old man thought.  He didn’t understand.

 

After informing her that she would be going to her new home as soon as one was found, Mr Snape and Professor Dumbledore left.  But when they were gone, Holly did not break out into a loud and helpless fit of sobbing.  Instead, she padded up to her room, and curled herself into a ball, and closed her eyes, wishing that she could sleep and not ever wake.  Not ever feel a single thing ever again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Harry**

 

Harry was tired.  It was a weariness that leached out from his heart down to the marrow of his bones.  It made his eyelids feel like lead weights, gave his muscles the constitution of wilted things.  Something in his life has changed, fundamentally shifted.  Something had tugged his inner compass so that it didn’t solely point to Holly.  The Dark Lord.  Wasn’t the man only supposed to be Harry’s means to his end?  There was no room in his heart for anything else.  He didn’t want to believe there was any more room in his heart.  Perhaps there was some space somewhere in there for Draco, for the other Malfoys.  But no, he had to stay oriented on Holly.  The idea of losing his focus was terrifying.

 

The Dark Lord had said that Harry was his.  It wasn’t the first time.  But those were just words.  The Dark Lord’s words.  They had no bearing on Harry, who followed his own path.  The Dark Lord had said that Harry would come when commanded.  But even before their estrangement, the Dark Lord did not ask for Harry often.  ‘Nothing will change,’ Harry told himself.  ‘Nothing will change.  Not really.’

 

Besides, he still had to make things up to Draco.  He meant to do it sooner, until recent events had ripped him away from his path, and kept him from his friend.  Draco would probably be upset.  But Draco  _ had _ to know that he was sorry, didn’t he?

 

And yet, he was tired.  He would see Draco at his lessons tomorrow.  He would talk to Draco then.  No!  He would talk to Draco tonight.  Just after he took a brief nap.  Just after he closed his eyes for a bit.

 

Harry was awoken by a loud pop in his room, and he bolted upwards, eyes wide.  What time was it?  The sky was oddly bright.  He was expecting Dobby perhaps.  Mightn’t the house-elf have another message from Holly?  Excitement thrummed and made his blood sing.  It was a premature joy.

 

 “Master Lucius wishes to speak to Master Harry.  Master Harry is to go to Master Lucius’s office,” came an unfamiliar voice, and as Harry looked downwards, he recognized his uncle’s personal house-elf.  He nearly groaned, but managed to press his lips shut, keeping the undignified sound for escaping.

 

Schooling his expression into some semblance of stoicism, he nodded at the house-elf.  “I’ll be there once I’m dressed.”

 

The house-elf narrowed his eyes.  “Master Harry is  _ not _ to keep Master Lucius waiting.”

 

 “I understand.”

 

The house-elf disappeared, and Harry let out a long and ragged exhale, running his hands through his hair.  “Merlin and Morgaine,” he muttered.  After his last, overwhelming encounter with Lucius, he wasn’t sure how prepared he was to face the man again.  He didn’t understand their relationship anymore.  Maybe he should ask Lady Aloli about it, but he felt as if time was no longer on his side. 

 

As quick as he was able, he dressed and made himself presentable.  And though he knew that he could call on Dobby to apparate him down to Lucius’s office, he wanted the time to gather himself, and think.  As he left his room, he looked towards Draco’s room, and his brows pressed together.  Guilt and regret mingled.  He would have to speak to Draco later.

 

When he reached Lucius’s office, the house-elf sensed his presence and the doors parted for him.  Uncle Lucius was seated at his desk, expression inscrutable.  But then, the corners of his lips tilted upwards, and his expression was welcoming.  Harry saw that it didn’t reach his eyes, and his skin rose in goose-pimples.

 

 “Good morning, Uncle Lucius,” he greeted placidly. 

 

Lucius nodded, still smiling.  “Sit.” A pause as Harry obeyed.  And then a longer pause as Lucius’s eyes bored into his own, as if Lucius had been searching for answers and thought that they might be written upon Harry’s face, or in his eyes.  What did his uncle want?  Was he back in the man’s favour, having been thrust back into the Dark Lord’s attentions?  Harry nearly frowned, wondering if his thoughts were too uncharitable.  This was his  _ uncle _ .  Surely, he cared.

 

 “I understand that the Dark Lord apparated you back to the manor yesterday.”

 

Harry nodded.  “Yes, uncle.”

 

 “Hmm.”  Lucius’s fingers laced together, expression speculative.  “I had thought you were too young to understand things.  At times you act years beyond your age, and yet, you are younger than Draco.”  He pursed his lips, letting the silence swell once again.  “Yet again, you’ve proved otherwise, Harry.  You are important.”

 

The words would have made Harry proud half a year ago.  But now, he only felt a void, or at best, a flicker.

 

 “We spoke of your responsibilities as the Black heir before.” Lucius waited for Harry to nod. “I thought not to burden you.  It seemed best to let you focus on your lessons - to mature in your own time.  But sometimes, responsibilities will not wait.”

 

The words were disconcerting.  Paranoia began to weave its threads around him, and he sensed manipulation.  He felt like some creature lay dead in his guts, rotting his insides, portending sickness.  “Responsibilities?”

 

Lucius nodded curtly. “Yes.  The burden of all men of power.”

 

Harry’s mouth thinned.  He wasn’t feeling powerful now.  “What responsibilities, may I ask?”

 

 “Beyond your duty to your lineage, you have a duty to your family.  And beyond that, a greater duty yet.  A duty to wizarding society.  To the greater benefit of us all.”

 

To Harry, that sounded more like sacrifice than duty.  All he wanted was to find Holly.  As if sensing his lack of resolve, Lucius pressed on: “Harry, have you noticed anything about the Dark Lord?”

 

 “What do you mean?”

 

 “Anything - unusual.”

 

Harry shook his head.  He only knew the Dark Lord as the man was now.  He never saw the previous war, and never knew the man that the Dark Lord once was. 

 

 “Do you understand the Dark Lord’s power?”  

 

 “Yes.”

 

 “Then you recognize the  _ harm _ he can do to those you - most care about.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened.  He had seen the Dark Lord as either an ally or a neutral force.  Why hadn’t he ever considered the possibilities of being at odds with that strange, powerful man?  There was no denying that the Dark Lord’s power was immense.  Was it possible?  Could that power turn against him?  Or worse, turn against those he most loved?  How could Harry stop it?

 

 “You understand,” Lucius said.

 

Harry’s brows drew together.  “What do I have to do?”

 

Lucius smiled, a knife-edged thing.  “Stay with him.  Stay with the Dark Lord.  Remain by his side.”

 

 “He has not requested me.”

 

 “Has he not?”

 

Harry’s eyes widened, and he stood.  “He asked you to - usually a house-elf calls for me.”

 

 “Best you go to him then, Harry.”

 

Harry nodded.  He left Lucius’s office, and made his way towards the Dark Lord’s drawing room, regretting that he still hadn’t spoken to Draco.  Later.  He would speak to Draco later.  And Lady Aloli too, when he found the time.

 

As ever, the drawing room doors opened for him, and Harry stepped into the room.  To his surprise, the curtains of the immense windows were drawn shut, and though the sun now brightened the sky, he felt as if he were walking into twilight.  

 

 “My Lord?” 

 

There was no response.  He stepped forwards and the doors shut behind him.  He was expected, wasn’t he?  The doors seemed to indicate so.

 

 “My Lord?”  He continued forwards, towards the islands of furniture that dotted the darkened room.  His instincts guided his footfalls.  No; it was more than that.  He was pulled forward, as if by a tether, inexorably linked.

 

He came up to a divan, and his eyes widened when he saw the body spread across it.  The Dark Lord was sleeping?  Here?  His palms became damp, and his heart skittered.  He felt like an intruder.  He shouldn’t be here, standing over a man who was at his most vulnerable.  And yet, was he?  Even asleep, power poured off the Dark Lord in heavy ripples, wrapping around Harry, absorbing into his skin.  He meant to leave.  But stepped forwards.

 

 ‘All I feel is rage.   _ Pain _ .  I would reach into my chest and rip out my heart if it assured me that I would stop  _ feeling _ .’  That was what the Dark Lord had said.  The words resonated with something deep within Harry.  Rage against Snape who had taken Holly away.  Rage against the loss of Bellatrix, and the fact that she hadn’t been saved. Pain from Holly’s absence.  Pain from the emptiness that the body of Bellatrix could not fill.  Pain from waking up alone.  Suffocating pain.  Pain that could only be borne if it was turned into Rage.  Rage that seared through his soul, blackening it.  Rage that kept him moving forward, driving him towards his goals.   His nails buried into his palms, and his eyes squeezed shut.  It was hard to breath.

 

When he opened his eyes again, the Dark Lord remained asleep, but strangely, the sight of him caused his rage and pain to bleed out of him, replacing it with something he could not name. The other man was so close to him that all he had to do was reach out a hand to touch, and yet the thought of touching him seemed like the grossest of violations.  He sighed and forced his eyes away from the sharp and elegant lines of the Dark Lord’s face.  Why had Lucius sent him here?  His hands remained fists, but they were growing numb.  He should leave.  ‘But I don’t want to,’ some treacherous part of him thought.  And yet, he should.

 

He began to turn away, when the magic around him became agitated and he snapped his eyes back to the Dark Lord in surprise.  The eyes were open now, pinning him, and though the Dark Lord’s face was blank, those eyes incinerated him, turning his layers to ash and leaving Harry raw and open.  His heart stumbled painfully, and then thudded against his throat.  His nerves buzzed, his ears buzzed.  The magic here was too much, and his pain was returning, but it was a different kind of pain.  ‘I don’t want this,’ Harry thought, lying to himself.

 

The Dark Lord sat up, seemingly with infinite slowness, each moment measured.  “What are you doing here?” the man hissed.

 

Harry opened his mouth, but words would not come.  Breath would not come.  His hands flew to his throat, and his eyes bulged, thoughts as chaotic as the flight of startled bats.  He was clawing at his neck, but there was nothing there - only the pressure of magic, and Harry had no magical defense.  He fell to his knees, thinking: ‘I’m going to die.’  His weight fell forward, pressed against the Dark Lord’s shins.  It was wrong, so wrong, but so too was the invisible grip on his airways, and the rising euphoria that assuaged his panic as his oxygen was cut off.  His eyes fluttered shut and oblivion took him soon after.

 

-o-

 

Something was running along the length of his scalp, carding his hair.  The feeling sent shivers undulating down his spine, and Harry leaned into the touch, leaned forwards against the warmth pressed to his front, exhaling in contentment.  It as if he had died and gone to -

 

Harry’s eyes shot open.  Had he died?  He was immediately aware of fuzzy blackness.  Not the blackness of nothingness - the blackness of silken robes, of finely woven fabric, pressed against one of his cheeks.  The hand (was it a hand?) in his hair stilled, but then resumed its rhythmic motions, fingertips skimming through the strands, soothing Harry with gentleness.  He was afraid to look up to see who was touching him.  But the magic that he was breathing in was unmistakeable.

 

 “Awake, Harry?” 

 

Harry tried to rise, his thoughts and emotions a tempest when he realized he was leaning on the Dark Lord’s lap, feeling the Dark Lord’s graceful hands through his hair.  But those fingers increased their pressure, and would not let him up, forcing him to stay calm, to be calm.  What was going on?  He let his eyes fall closed again, unable to do anything else, but that only served to make him forget himself, to lean further into the stroking fingers, the nearby warmth.

 

With each pass of those hands, Harry became increasingly boneless, forgetting everything.  Fleeting impressions tried to find purchase in his mind only to find no grip and slip away.  ‘Mama,’ he thought. ‘Holly.’  His heart felt full when he drifted off, yet again.

 

-o-

 

When Harry awoke for the second (or was it third?) time, he was lying on the divan, draped in a blanket.  He did not see the Dark Lord anywhere.  What had happened?  Was it all a bizarre dream?  It couldn’t have all been a dream, if he was still in the Dark Lord’s drawing room.  Even in his mentally clouded state, he would recognize this room, and if not the room, then the Dark Lord’s unmistakeable magic.  He sat up and glanced about, spotting the Dark Lord sitting in his usual chair, eyes closed.  Should he leave?  It occurred to him then that he had forgotten all about his lessons, and he sprang up, padding towards the drawing room exit.  He peered back towards the Dark Lord, brows knit.  He hadn’t been dismissed.  But then again, he wasn’t sure if he had been invited, and it was difficult to think clearly here.  He reached a hand towards the door.

 

 “Where do you think you’re going?”

 

Harry froze.  Cautiously, he turned around, as if his creeping pace could delay the confrontation to come.  Their eyes met, but those dark eyes were unfathomable.  ‘Erratic.’  ‘Unpredictable.’  Those weren’t even Harry’s words, but even so, he did not know if he would be slain or treated with gentleness. 

 

Harry couldn’t tell if an answer was required or if speaking was an act of recklessness.  “I am missing my lessons.”  He let himself admit something then.  Something that he had caught hints of numerous times, but had not fully pieced together until now.  But to see the picture in the entirety prevented him from unseeing it.

 

The Dark Lord’s expression remained unchanged, but then a house-elf appeared, barely able to mask its quivering fear.

 

 “M-master has called?”

 

 “Get Harry’s school books,” the man said, not even bothering to spare the pitiful creature a glance.  “He’s taking his lessons here.”

 

 “Y-yes M-master!” 

 

He was to stay?  What about Draco?  But Harry did not say these things out loud.  Not when he could now understand the risk of mentioning Draco’s name to such a man.  There did not seem to be any way that he could deny it now.

 

The Dark Lord was a madman. 

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

Holly had meant to protest.  She had committed a grievous error by breaking Mr Snape’s trust, and communicating with Harry behind his back.  But once she had time to step back, and to think, she couldn’t bear to submit to going to a new home.  She couldn’t.  She would have to entreat Mr Snape to let her stay.  She would promise to be better, and she would  _ keep _ her promise.  It never occurred to her that she wouldn’t be given that chance.

 

 She was in the sitting room, reading a book when the entrance door opened, and she looked up, unable to repress her hope.  But the life swelling in her chest died a quick death when her eyes fell upon the old man, Professor Dumbledore.  She shifted her head, trying to view the area behind him.

 

 “Hello, Holly.  I’m afraid that Severus isn’t here.”

 

Holly’s hands tightened on the book, and she had to remind herself that the books did not belong to her, and she did not dare to damage them before the muscles in her fingers would loosen.  She did not know Professor Dumbledore; not the way she knew Mr Snape.  And she had no reason to defer to this man, to respect him even if Mr Snape did.

 

She tilted her chin up haughtily, the pure-blood mannerisms second nature.  “You’ve come to force me to leave?”

 

Professor Dumbledore’s blue eyes did not harden at her barbed tone, nor did he stiffen or become defensive.  Instead his expression remained gentle, and maddeningly compassionate.  “I understand that it must appear that way.  May I sit?”

 

Holly nodded frostily, pushing aside the childish desire to refuse him. 

 

After choosing a nearby armchair, faded to an indeterminate colour, Professor Dumbledore’s eyes roved across her features and he smiled warmly.  “You have your mother’s eyes.”  What could Holly possibly say to that?  She kept her face immobile.  “You must be a very special person indeed to have won a place in Severus’s heart.”

 

She inhaled, a mere puff of air, but it was sharp.  The words were spoken kindly, but they hit her like a chisel, cracking her shell, rekindling her dying hopes.  “His heart?”

 

The blue eyes twinkled merrily.  “There are many who don’t believe that Severus has one.  But those who know him well know that he has a heart of great depths.  It warms me to see him opening himself up again.”

 

She felt her lips trembling and pressed them together to stop the treacherous motions.  “Why must I leave then?”

 

 “It’s for your sake as much as for his, my dear girl.”

 

Holly shook her head, her breaths shallow as she tried to force back the pressure behind her eyes.  “No one will know I’m here.  I can be good.  I can stay hidden.  I promise!”

 

Professor Dumbledore leaned forward and laid a gentle hand upon her arm.  “I do not doubt that.  But I’m sorry.  It’s too late.  The world has become far more dangerous than you can imagine.  Voldemort - ah - perhaps you know of him as the Dark Lord - presents a greater danger than you can imagine.  I understand that it was Bellatrix Black that raised you.  But Voldemort is worse - far worse than she could ever be.  The harm that he could do, not only to you, but the very fabric of our society, is prodigious.”

 

As much as she wanted to throw forth a denial, Holly did not doubt it.  She had seen the man, and had sensed his power.  She remembered the worshipful way that Bellatrix had spoken of him.  A chill swept across her skin, and she set down her book and ran her hands along her arm, unable to meet Professor Dumbledore’s eyes.  It was easier to stare down at the worn wooden floorboards, which lacked even a rug to soften the cold hardness.

 

 “It really is for the best.  I can see you care little for my opinions, but it would give Severus peace of mind to know that you are safe.”

 

She looked back up at him, eyes flashing in ire at the blatant manipulation.  But the old man’s eyes remained kind, and clear as a summer’s sky.  The openness confused her.  She was accustomed to guile, to pure-blood machinations.  She did not know what to make of openness.  Something within her wavered.

 

 “I have found a family that would be happy to take you in.  They have a daughter of their own, only about a year older than you.  They would be able to keep you hidden and safe, and provide you with a nourishing environment.  Will you give them a chance, Holly?”

 

The refusal that would have been immediate earlier in the evening was now losing its conviction, dying an ignominious death. As if a mere puppet controlled by strings, she nodded, eyes downcast.

 

 “I am glad.  This is for the best, Holly.”

 

She only nodded again.

 

Holly had hoped she would have been given more time.  But she learned that by agreeing to move, meant moving  _ immediately _ .  Her possessions were paltry, and Professor had once again stressed the dangers to remaining.  So, in a whirlwind of action, all that she owned was packed up, and as soon as Professor Dumbledore laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, she felt herself squeezed into a narrow tube only to reappear, with barely a crack, in front of an unfamiliar townhouse of neat red brick.

 

 “Come along,” Professor Dumbledore urged, and woodenly, Holly obeyed.

 

Holly did not remember hearing a knock, but the door swept open, and they were greeted by a woman who seemed to be made entirely of soft roundness, with loose pale brown ringlets, rosy cheeks, and an almost-plump figure.

 

 “Oh!  Professor Dumbledore!” the woman twittered.  “Is this she?”

 

Professor Dumbledore smiled.  “You’re not a student anymore, Porcia.  Call me Albus.  It’s what Caradoc called me.”

 

 “Oh!” the woman’s pale eyes became misty, and she gave him a wobbly smile.  “Of course - Albus.  Come in!  Come in!  Make yourselves at home.” She turned into the house, singing out:  “Wendell!  Clara!  They’re here!”

 

As Holly stepped into the glow of light, her immediate impression was that the home was the complete opposite of Spinner’s End.  Where Spinner’s End was dark, this place was full of light, from the many brightly lit gas lamps and table lamps.  Where Spinner’s End was dreary and colourless, this place was decorated with vibrant rugs, and cheerful furniture in a mismatch of merry colours.  It was nothing like Spinner’s End, but it was also nothing like Malfoy Manor, with its cool and stately elegance.  If Holly had been anyone else, perhaps the word that came to mind would have been homey.  

 

 “Oh, my aren’t you just  _ beautiful _ !  Just like a little doll!”  It took a moment for Holly to realize that the round woman, Porcia, was speaking to her (or more accurately, at her).  “You are little Holly -”

 

 “Evans,” Professor Dumbledore finished, and it was only her self-control that kept Holly from widening her eyes.  A false name.  She supposed it made sense.  “Holly Evans.”

 

 “Ah!  Holly Evans!  How pretty!  Well, Holly, this is my husband, Wendell -” she gestured to a bland-looking man in tweed robes, “and this is our daughter, Clara.  Clara’s a little older than you.  She will be going to Hogwarts next year. Clara, say hello to Professor Dumbledore and Holly.” 

 

The girl, who had her mother’s curls, and her father’s nondescript features smiled prettily (or insincerely, Holly thought), and said: “Hello Professor Dumbledore.  Hello Holly.”

 

The adults began to speak, and though Holly wanted to hear what they were saying, the girl, Clara, began talking to her.

 

 “I’ve always wanted a sister.”

 

Holly’s eyebrows lifted.  It was strange.  Of all the scenarios she had imagined, she had never imagined being  _ wanted _ . 

 

 “Oh, you’re going to be  _ so _ happy here!” Porcia gushed at Holly.  “Why don’t you show Holly her room, Clara-bear!”

 

 “ _ Mum _ !”

 

But Porcia merely giggled, while Wendell smiled indulgently, and Holly felt something within her ease.  Perhaps this would not be so terrible after all.  She gave Clara a shy smile, and when she looked back at Professor Dumbledore, his eyes were twinkling and bright.  He gave her a nod, before she followed behind Clara, up the carpeted stairs to her new room.

 

Clara, impatient, doubled back and grabbed Holly by her sleeve, tugging her upwards.  “C’mon!  Your room is next to mine.  Isn’t that great?”

 

Holly nodded uncertainly and Clara beamed.  It was odd.  She was a stranger.  Why were they so friendly?  Clara began to show her her room (brightly coloured in pinks, yellows and greens), chattering all the while. 

 

 “We’re going to be like sisters!” Clara declared.  “I know it.  It’ll be like in the stories, except we’ll never have rows about anything.  We can play Camelot!  I’ll be the Lady of the Lake, and you can be - erm - Guinevere!”

 

Holly knit her brows.  “I’d - rather not.”

 

Clara widened her eyes.  “Rather not?”

 

 “I’ve never -”

 

 “Oh!” (Clara sounded like her mother when she said this.) “Well, if you’ve never played Camelot before, then you don’t know what you’re missing!  You’ll  _ love  _ it.”  And the girl continued to chatter on, satisfied with Holly’s nods and murmurs of assent.  And if a sense of disquietude began to rise within Holly’s chest, she quickly pressed it down.  She would be all right.  She  _ had _ to be.

 

-o-

 

**Draco**

 

Draco hated Harry.  At least, hate was the word he used to describe the the pain that made his ribcage feel several sizes too small, and made his heart feel like a shredded thing, the hurt battering him relentlessly.  No, not hurt.  Hate.  He hated how Harry had made him feel.  It was infuriating.  And did Harry care?  It seemed not.

 

His lessons suffered, but Draco did not care.  His parents noticed, and remarked, but Draco had only needed to jut his chin up proudly for them to back away and give him his space.  There was a terrible familiarity to these emotions, but when Draco tried to grasp at the memory, it slipped through his fingers, ephemeral as the mist.  If he had ever felt a soul-tearing pain like this before, he’d know, wouldn’t he?  He couldn’t forget feeling this way.  It was too dreadful, too heart-sickening.

 

And what was worst of all was his seeming inability to think of anything aside from Harry.  Certainly, Draco wasn’t  _ moping _ (a lie).  And was it really a wonder if he couldn’t stop imagining Harry on his knees, begging for Draco’s forgiveness, begging for their friendship to be mended?  Or hearing all of Harry's regrets, and all the ways that Harry was hurting (which would naturally be far worse than anything that Draco could experience)?  And when Draco wasn't thinking such thoughts, then he was thinking about  _ making _ Harry hurt.  For all the suffering that Harry had inflicted upon Draco, Harry deserve to suffer a thousand-fold, or worse. Draco wanted the power of being able to choose whether or not to forgive Harry.  He thought he wouldn't forgive him.  But mostly, this was just to prove to himself that he didn't care, and that his eyes weren't burning with the threat of tears.   Malfoy's did not cry.  At least not the ones that would be heir to the Malfoy name.

 

He listlessly tossed one of his dragon figurines into the air, watching the way if flew around his bedroom in spirals and breathed out puffs of purple flame.  He heard footsteps, and his brows furrowed, wondering why he hadn't heard the pop of the house-elf.

 

 “Draco?”

 

Draco surged upwards on the sofa, his eyes wide.  But he quickly reined in his surprise, unable to bear the thought of displaying any weakness.  “Harry.  What are you doing in my room?” He was glad at the flatness of his tone.

 

Redness bloomed across Harry's cheeks, and he shifted his gaze downwards. His posture spoke of contrition, and though Draco should have felt a searing rush of dark satisfaction, he felt only a painful yearning that he tried to swallow back once and then again.

 

 “I came through the passageway,” Harry admitted, doleful eyes lifting up to Draco, searching for forgiveness. Wasn't this what Draco wanted?  Already, his pulse thrummed in anticipation and hope, but it warred with his anger and the unhealed ache in his chest.

 

“A week late,” Draco spat out.

 

Harry blinked in rapid succession, looking as if he had been slapped.  “I’m sorry.  I meant to speak to you sooner.” 

 

It wasn't enough.

 

 “I’ve been -” Harry shook his head. “The Dark Lord - well -” he sighed heavily.  “Forgive me?”

 

By far, it wasn't enough. And yet, he wanted Harry's friendship more than he wanted anything else.  The ‘yes’ was on the tip of his tongue.  What came up instead, as if his mouth had made an alliance with his pride, was:  “No.” 

 

Harry’s expression was as stricken as Draco's.  Those green eyes became luminous, filled with unshed tears, but Harry quickly tore his glance away, hands clenched at the hems of his sleeves.

 

 ‘Try harder than that,’  Draco silently urged. ‘I thought we were friends.’ 

 

 “I shouldn't have interrupted you,” Harry choked out, turning away.

 

  ‘No!’ Draco silently screamed. But although he had opened his mouth, his vocal cords refused to cooperate.

 

 “I'm sorry,” Harry repeated, his voice breaking.  “I'll go.”

 

 “Fine then!  Leave!”  Draco cried out, infuriated and wounded by Harry's complete lack of effort.  That horrible thought rose once again:  Draco was far more invested in this friendship than Harry had ever been.  And all it was bringing him was pain.  As Harry shut the door behind him,  Draco left out of a furious snarl.  Yes, he hated Harry.  But as the awful pressure welled up with in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, he thought that he hated himself more.  It was ruined.  His friendship was completely ruined.  He threw himself back on the sofa, and this time he couldn't hold back the sting in his eyes, nor the broken sound that forced its way past his lips. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Harry**

 

It wasn't until the Dark Lord had to leave on business that Harry gained some measure of his life back.  It was strange to think how easy it was to let himself be consumed by the other man’s all-encompassing power, insane or not. It was disturbing to think how easy it was to be in the Dark Lord's presence. For the most part, the Dark Lord allowed Harry to live his own life, and focus on his lessons.  It wasn't as if Harry had anything else to focus on, and as magnetic as the other man was, Harry had no intention spending his time staring at him, as if the Dark Lord was a puzzle that could be solved.  The Dark Lord might be a puzzle, but he wasn't a solvable one. And he might be mad, but only a fool would underestimate the prodigious intellect that threaded through the madness, like glints of gold in a weltering stream.

 

The Dark Lord asked little of him.  But that did little to alleviate the lassitude that continued to press down on his bones; the Dark Lord's presence was exhausting enough.  It was a relief when the Dark Lord finally departed. But the relief had been expected.  What wasn't expected was the disconcerting unhappiness, small though the feeling was. But maybe it was natural to feel a little unhappy when one had to leave the presence of someone they had grown accustomed to.  And was he accustomed to the Dark Lord?  Strange to think that it would be so.  

 

His first thought, when his life was finally his own again, was of Holly (but Dobby had woefully informed him that his sister had sent no new messages, pulling his ears all the while).  His next thought was of Draco.  Guilt flooded him.  He needed to repair their friendship, but would Draco want to?  Draco often jested about Harry's precarious status as his best friend.  But what if it wasn't a jest?  What if he had been serious?  Harry shook his head.  Was it the Dark Lord's insanity that made it so much harder to read people?

 

He needed to speak to Draco right away. The more he thought about it, the more he realized just how much he relied upon Draco's friendship. He needed something from Draco.  For so long, he thought of Draco almost as a stand-in for Holly. But that wasn’t true, was it?  Draco was nothing like Holly.  His relationship with Draco was valuable in its own right.  ‘But is it just a crutch?’ a quiet voice asked.  He shook his head, brushing the thought away.  He needed to gather strength, not doubts.

 

It was with these thoughts in mind that he made his way up to his room, slipping into Draco’s chambers through their connecting passage. And when Draco's eyes lit up at the sight of him, he felt his hopes flaring.  But his friend’s expression became shuttered, and when Draco spoke, his voice was devoid of emotion. It flustered him.  Harry had come, meaning to speak from his heart, but he hadn't been prepared for the prospect of having to pummel his heart against a stone wall.  And in the end, he couldn't do it; not when he was still so drained after his week spent with the Dark Lord.   He would try again later.  He  _ had  _ to. He couldn't give up on his friendship.  But that didn't change the fact that it felt as if his chest have been carved open, his beating heart exposed to the cruel elements. 

 

He was sprawled out on his bed, aware of Dobby’s nearby presence (removing the leftovers of the snack he had requested), when Harry moaned: “I want my wand!”

 

A pause.  And then:  “Dobby is very sorry.  Dobby is not permitted to retrieve Master Harry’s wand.”  The house-elf began to wring his hands. “Dobby is unable to fulfill Master Harry’s wishes!” His voice was reaching ever higher pitches of distress.

 

 “Dobby!” Harry cried, sitting up.  “Enough!  I  _ know  _ you can't get me my wand. I was just -” he mussed up his hair and sighed.  “I just wish I had a wand.”

 

Dobby began to shuffle back and forth on his feet.  He looked as if he had something to say, and yet did not dare to say it.

 

Harry frowned.  “What is it?  Tell me.”

 

 “Dobby knows of a book in the library -”

 

A book?  That hardly seemed like anything to get so worked up about.

 

 “A book about making wands.”

 

 “Making wands?”  Harry echoed, leaning forwards, expression intent. 

 

Dobby nodded, eyes uncertain but filled with hope.  Hope in pleasing Harry.  “Yes, does Master Harry want Dobby to retrieve the book?”

 

 “Yes!  Yes, please, Dobby.”

 

Harry had thought his wings had been clipped.  He was aware that witches and wizards in Britain weren’t permitted to receive their first wand until they were eleven, and he hadn't even considered the idea of making a wand.  Could it really be possible?

 

Dobby returned brief moments later, with a narrow book in hand, beautifully bound in embroidered silk.  He looked down at the title.   _ An Extended History of Wand-Making _ .  Harry's lips twisted downwards.  He thought he would be receiving an instructional tome.   He didn't realize that Dobby had meant a book on history.   But when his eyes return to Dobby, the creature looked so pathetically hopeful that Harry couldn't bring himself to admonish the creature.

 

 “Thank you, Dobby.”

 

The house-elf clasped his hands together, eyes filled with so much gratitude that it made Harry want to squirm.  It was a relief when Dobby finally disappeared.  Harry shook his head and sighed.  He had been planning to sleep, but the moment of excitement had jolted him awake, and it felt like it would be a while before the adrenaline cleared from his body.  He opened the book.

 

Harry grimaced at the sight of the minuscule text that greeted his eyes.  How could anyone possibly read anything so tiny?  He felt as if he were looking at a series of indecipherable dots.  But as he squinted down at the letters, they magically expanded, pushing the other words out of the way, and making the book extraordinarily easy to read.

 

And though the book was indeed a history, it was a history that couldn't be separated from the craft.  Harry was fascinated. 

 

 “Master Lucius requests Master Harry’s presence at his office.”  

 

The voice startled Harry awake. He hadn't even realized that he had fallen asleep, with the wand-making book still sitting on top of him.  He rolled to his side and gave the house-elf a bleary look before the creature’s words finally registered in his mind, and he pushed himself upright.

 

 “Morning already? Merlin -” he groaned. “Tell Uncle Lucius that I'll be there soon.” But then he groaned again and threw back his head.  “This means that I'll be missing my lessons. Again.”

 

The house-elf merely gave Harry and unimpressed look, causing Harry to sigh and shake his head. 

 

 “Never mind. Just let Uncle Lucius know I'll be there.” 

 

The house-elf nodded and then disappeared. 

 

Making himself presentable today felt much more challenging than usual, but once he had managed it, he made his way to his uncle's office.  This time, there was more sincerity in Lucius’s greeting, and yet, Harry was still unwilling to lower his guard.  If he couldn't even trust his own judgement, how to trust anyone else's? 

 

 “The Dark Lord’s equilibrium has been restored,” Lucius remarked. “ I believe you are to thank for that?”

 

Harry clenched his jaw. He hadn't done anything. All that had happened was that he had learned of the true depths of the Dark Lord’s mutable nature, his innate unsteadiness. He wasn't convinced that he was in a better position, knowing this.

 

Lucius hummed, reading something on Harry’s face, and Harry glanced up at the pale eyes. 

 

 “You  _ know _ , don’t you?” Lucius said, and when Harry reflected a blank look, he added: “You’ve seen his erratic nature.  You’ve seen the threat of who he is.”

 

Harry pressed his lips together, felt a tightness around his eyes, and Lucius saw it for the assent that it was. 

 

 “He cannot see into your mind, can he.”

 

It was not so simple as that.  And yet, it was true enough that Harry nodded. He didn't even know how he could be so certain of this, and yet he knew. 

 

 “Then you understand the scope of the danger,” Lucius said.  “You understand the value of having control.” 

 

 “Control?” Harry echoed, managing to sound composed and cool, rather than uncertain.

 

 “Control.  Planning.  Ensuring that wizarding society moves in the best direction to ensure our continuity.” Lucius’s words did not move Harry.  But Lucius seemed to know this.  “Ensuring that your sister is  _ safe _ .”

 

The breath left Harry’s lungs. 

 

Lucius’s eyes were assessing, silently weighing Harry’s merits, his faults.  “I will do what I can to help you, Harry.  I only hope that you will help me as well.”

 

 “How can I help?” Harry asked, not out of an eagerness to give aid, but a need to uncover Lucius’s motives, and learn what was happening around him.  He had been an outsider before, but the Dark Lord’s presence was drawing him in, and bringing him to the centre of things.  He could not walk this path with his eyes closed.

 

Lucius’s smile was easy, practiced. “You need not do much.  I only need information.  You have a bond with the Dark Lord that is unique.  I would appreciate your - insights on the man.  Would you be willing to help me with that?”

 

 ‘What would I get in return?’ Harry wondered.

 

Interpreting Harry’s silence, Lucius continued.  “I would like to think that I am not burdening you.  You know my thoughts and my philosophies, Harry.  I strive to make Wizarding Britain a better place for us all.  I have Draco to think of.  But what benefits Draco also benefits you and your sister.  Is it selfish?  Selfish to want the best for my child?  Perhaps.  But you see where I stand.”

 

Harry let his eyes drift towards the bookcase.  Would it really make a difference to tell Lucius what he knew?  Even during their week together, little had happened.  The Dark Lord had nearly killed him, and he may or may not have dreamed of the man running his hands through his hair.  The Dark Lord had kept him close, but no secrets had been shared.  Almost no conversation had been had.  They merely absorbed one another’s presence.  And yet, information was valuable.  He felt that Lucius was not just asking for information.  He was trying to determine and affirm Harry’s alliance.  Harry couldn’t afford to make enemies.  Snape was enemy enough.

 

 “All right.  I’ll help you,” Harry said.

 

Lucius smiled again.  “I knew that you would come to the right decision.”

 

By the time Harry was dismissed, he had missed much of Mr Praos’ lesson, but he still hurried up to the room, hoping to catch Draco. Just as he turned a corner, he saw Draco coming out of the study room, with dark smudges marring the near-translucent skin under his eyes.  The sight was jarring - as a Malfoy, Draco was never without products or tools that could enhance his beauty. Harry had seen Draco's hair mussed, but it was alien to see his skin looking anything less than porcelain smooth and clear. The sight of it made his chest feel tight, and fed the guilt that lived, like a parasite, within him.

 

 “Draco.”

 

The blond’s head snapped up, and he blinked, as if trying to discern whether or not Harry was real. It was a strange look to see on Draco's face; Harry was accustomed to Draco's effortless confidence, of his certainty of his vaulted place in the world.

 

Draco frowned but it was an expression that lacked any rancor. “Harry. Here to speak to Mr Praos?”

 

Harry shook his head. “ I'm here to see  _ you _ .” 

 

Something flickered in Draco's grey eyes, something raw, and Draco turned his gaze away, fixing it to the wall. Harry's slumbering sense of hope began to awaken, and he took a tentative step towards his friend.  The faintest hint of pinkness rose upon Draco's cheeks, but he did not back away.

 

 “Listen, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I - well, I -”

 

 “Yes.”

 

Harry gave Draco of a bewildered look. “Pardon?”

 

Draco's eyes widened, and the colour on his face deepened.  “Nothing!” he squawked. “What were you going to say?”

 

Harry furrowed his brows, scrutinizing Draco's face as if all the signs were marked there.  He had been about to explain his situation with the Dark Lord, explain that he couldn't (wouldn’t) leave the other man.  But he suddenly had the impression that such words would carry no weight with Draco. 

 

Courage would fail him if he permitted his thoughts to reassert themselves. And so, Harry did not think, letting his emotions spill out like a torrent. “Please forgive me?  Please?  I hate this.  I hate that we're not talking.  You're my best friend,  even if - even if you don't feel the same way.”

 

There was a bright sheen across Draco's eyes, and he bit down on his lower lip. “You are  _ such  _ an idiot. If I were a muggle, I would punch you right now.”

 

But despite the harshness of Draco's words, the answer was in his expression and in his tone of voice. Harry broke into a wide grin, and since he still refused to think, he swept Draco into a hug, much like he used to hug Holly.  It took several seconds before he realized how forward he was being, but by then, Draco was hugging him back and Harry dared not to let go. By the time they pulled apart, neither of them could meet the other’s eyes.

 

 “Do you want to go flying?” Draco asked the floor.

 

 “Actually,” Harry said to the wall, “I thought we could do something new.” Harry’s and Draco’s eyes finally met.

 

 “New?” Draco repeated, skepticism staining his words.  Of course, as a rather spoiled pure-blood heir, Draco seemed to own everything under the sun. What could possibly be new?

 

Harry nodded, letting mischief dance across his eyes. “Yeah.”  He reached out for Draco's sleeve, and tugged him along the corridor, using his gaze to remind Draco that they were far too close to Mr Praos to have true privacy.

 

 “Well?” Draco demanded, once they were outside.

 

 A laugh bubbled out of Harry's lips.  The fear of losing Draco's friendship had been as suffocating as the vines of Devil's Snare within a deep abyss.  Knowing that he hadn't lost that friendship was like that first gasp of air once those fatal vines loosened, sweet and dizzying.  As if aware of Harry's thoughts, Draco bit down on his lower lip, eyes aglow with a sympathetic merriment.

 

 “Haaar-eee! You’re dawdling.”

 

Still grinning, Harry shook his head. “D’you recall that I lost my wand?”

 

A storm cloud seemed to pass across Draco's face, and Harry winced as he realized that he was dredging up bad memories.

 

 “Did you get it back?” Draco asked, his voice like the scrape of stone against stone, as he crossed his arms.

 

Harry shook his head. “No. No, it's not that.” He found himself rubbing the back of his neck. “Actually, I was wondering - d’you want to try making our own wands?”

 

Draco uncrossed his arms. “Come again?”

 

 “I found a book on wand making - well, the history of wand making - and I was thinking that we could try making our own wands. If you want.”

 

Draco's eyes widened.

 

 “You can't tell your mother of course,” Harry quickly added.

 

 “Are you serious?”

 

 “And the wands won't be as good as the ones that you can purchase in stores.  Honestly, I'm not entirely sure how powerful the wands would be, or whether or not they would even work, but -”

 

 “Yes!” Draco burst out. “Let's do it!”

 

 “You really want to? It might be a lot of work.”

 

 “We're doing this Harry. If I could have my own wand -” Draco trailed off, his eyes alight with the limitless possibilities which frolicked across his imagination. “We’re definitely doing this.”

 

-o-

 

Making a wand wasn't particularly difficult.  Making a wand that could channel magic without obliterating itself was substantially more difficult.  And making a wand with any degree of power seemed nigh impossible. It was only the promise of having their own wands that drove Harry and Draco to keep trying and trying, despite their parade of failures. 

 

According to  _ An Extended History of Wand-Making _ , the core of a wand needed to come from a magical creature. Suggestions included unicorn, thestral, or Kelpie hair; phoenix, griffin, or thunderbird feathers; dragon or chimera heartstrings; and a number of other organic materials.  Unfortunately for Harry and Draco, there was no easy way for them to access these materials.  But through careful experimentation, Harry ended up settling on an interwoven braid of Bellatrix’s hair and silvery hitzetier hair from Hamel, and Draco decided on a similar core, except that his was a braid of Narcissa’s and Sheratan’s hair.

 

Choosing the wood of the wand presented a greater challenge. One had to have a feel for magic, sensing whether a particular tree or shrub resonated with one's magic or not. Bellatrix’s haphazard training of Harry's magical abilities prepared him for this, but to Draco, the idea was mystifying and strange, and he did not know what he was supposed to be feeling for. He was used to being able to cajole or coerce others into solve his problems for him, but as much as Harry wanted to help him, Harry knew that Draco needed to do this on his own. 

 

 “It feels like -” Harry pulled his brows downwards as he sorted through his mind, trying to find the right descriptions, “like a stream.  It feels like your magic is flowing through you, from the bottom of your feet, to the top of your head to the tip of your fingers, with nothing blocking the way. When you touch the right wood, your magic just moves more easily.”

 

Draco tightened his grip on a narrow branch of beech, glaring at the tree as if it had personally offended him. Harry, meanwhile, was gently stripping the bark from a branch of aspen. Aspen hadn't been the only wood that sang in sympathy with his magic, but he felt a stronger pull to the aspen than to any of the other native trees and shrubs that grew nearby. 

 

 “That doesn't help. Everything just feels the same!” Draco cried. “This is so stupid.  I can see why people switched to buying wands, rather than making them.” 

 

Harry hummed. “Try imagining -”

 

 “Arrgh!”  Draco interrupted, throwing up his hands in frustration. “Another analogy isn't going to help. Just - pick something for me, Harry.”

 

 “I can't!  It doesn't work that way.”  He rolled his lower lip through his teeth.  After a moment of hesitation, he said: “Why don't you just pick one that you like?”

 

Draco gave him a skeptical look. “And that is supposed to help how?”

 

Harry, who was trying to peel away a stubborn bit of bark, failed to catch the bite in Draco’s words. “I think that magic can speak to us through our preferences.  It's a part of us. If you can't feel your magic, you can at least feel what you like.”

 

Draco shook his head and sighed.  “Fine. Then let's keep going further. Everything here just,” he grimaced, “irritates me.”

 

Harry shrugged, and pushed himself up from the prickling yellow-green autumn grass, tucking his broom under his armpit. “All right.” 

 

As Harry and Draco ventured further towards the border of the Malfoy estate, Harry pulled out a long pointed wire that Dobby had given him, to begin hollowing out the aspen. There was nothing magical about the wire (though the quality of the material was impressive); rather, the book had claimed that one had to use one’s magic to ‘smooth the correct course’ through the wood.  This ‘correct course’ was necessary for ‘wood and core to embrace’ (whatever that meant). Harry was barely even aware of Draco as the blond continued to mutter: “ Nope!”, “No!”, “ Weak!”, “ Ugly!” and so forth. 

 

 “I think all these trees are just too  _ common  _ for me,” Draco huffed, as Harry let out a hiss of satisfaction from successfully hollowing out the branch without poking a hole in the middle, like so many of his other attempts.

 

 “Hmm?” Harry pulled out the strands of hair in his pocket, and fished them through the branch.

 

 “Harry!  Are you even listening to me?” 

 

 “Mm hmm.”

 

 “Harry, your robes are tucked into your pants and you look ridiculous.”

 

 “All right.”

 

 “Arrgh!  Harry, I've decided we're not best friends anymore.”

 

 “Hmm.  You're my best friend too, Draco.”

 

 “Harry!”

 

 “Morgaine’s knickers!  This one still feels weird!”

 

After narrowing his eyes and giving Harry a long and punishing look (which Harry failed to notice), Draco stomped over to Harry's side, rudely shoving his friend’s shoulder with his own. “You finished another wand?  Is it going to catch on fire like the last one you made?”

 

Harry shook his head, oblivious to the asperity in Draco's voice.  “It's better than the last one, but -” he waved the wand in a sinuous motion, “it's still stoppering my magic.”

 

Draco sighed. What was the sense in wasting energy on having a fit when Harry wouldn't even notice? But perhaps he could tug on Harry's sense of guilt later, and with that thought, Draco's mood brightened, enabling him to focus on Harry’s crudely made wand.  “What do you mean?”

 

 “My magic should be flowing through the wand like water flowing through a pipe.  And using the wire to hollow out the wood is supposed to be like widening that pipe - only, most pipes run straight, or at proper angles, but the path for the core of a wand isn't necessarily supposed to be straight.”

 

 “I  _ do  _ remember that from the book, Harry.”

 

 “Oh.  Yeah.  Anyway, this is a little better than the other wands I've made, but -” he pursed his lips, and flicked his wrist twice, causing a pitiful leak of yellow sparks, “it feels like I'm trying to move my magic through a gunked up pipe, rather than through a clear one.”  He knit his brows in concentration, eyes twitching slightly, before exhaling in frustration. “My other wand - the one that your mother took away - was so much more responsive to my will.  And none of the wands I’ve made make me feel oily and dirty.  I wonder if that means I’m doing something wrong.”  Harry lifted his arm again.  “ _ Lumos _ !” 

 

The wand lit up with a faltering white light, bright one moment and then dim the next. “These wands don't focus magic very well without incantations,”  Harry muttered. “It's like having to learn to do magic all over again. I don't know how I’d manage if we didn't have Latin lessons.”  He smiled weakly.  “But at least this one didn't catch on fire!”

 

Draco snorted. “Can I try?”

 

Harry shrugged, and handed his friend the wand. After saying  _ lumos _ over a dozen times, Draco finally managed a flickering bit of light. 

 

With an expression of disgust, he handed the wand back to Harry. “It's making me feel a little nauseated.”

 

Harry nodded in commiseration, but before he had a chance to say anything, a wail cut through the air, causing Harry and Draco to jerk in surprise.

 

 “What was that?” Harry asked.

 

Draco thinned his lips, apprehensive. “I don't know. But -” he surveyed their surroundings, “I know that there's a muggle village not far from here.”

 

There was another cry, followed by a clipped sob, and Harry hummed.  “Should we should go see what it is?” For all the brutality he had witnessed in life, the suffering of others still tugged at his heart, whispering a compassion that spoke more in feelings than in words.

 

 “Well, if they  _ are  _ muggles, they won't be able to see us. The only place in Britain with better protective enchantments is Hogwarts.  Father did always say that muggles and their ilk are dirty brutal animals.  Might be an interesting show.” 

 

Harry felt a reproof on the tip of his tongue, but he was all too familiar with Draco's nature, so he merely shook his head and mounted his broom, wand tucked safely away in his pocket. The sound of distant sobbing had become more subdued, but it was enough that Harry urged his broom faster, letting his ears lead the way. 

 

 “Stop that!”  A brusque but feminine voice commanded. “Be  _ quiet _ !”

 

 “I-I’m trying, mum,” a child’s voice replied, half hiccoughing. “Ow!”

 

 “I said quiet!” the woman hissed.  “And hurry along.” And in lower tones: “God, you're the worst thing that ever happened to me.  You and your deadbeat father.  Ruining my body; ruining my life -  _ Hurry up _ !”

 

The child cried out again, and Harry leaned down on his broom, speeding forward until he spotted two figures in the distance, a top-heavy woman and a spindly child, nearest copse of trees.  Both had brown-black hair, and dusky skin, and if Harry hadn’t heard the child say ‘mum,’ he would have guessed from the sight of them that they were parent and child. The woman had the child's hand in her own, walking at such a brisk pace that it was clear the child couldn't keep up.  In answer to this, the woman did not slow down; instead, she would wrench her hand forward, yanking the child as if the child's arm was a leash.  The sight of it caused Harry to feel a twinge of sympathetic pain in his own shoulder, and a knot of growing injustice in his stomach. He maneuvered his broom near some tall shrubs, but he trusted the protective enchantments enough to keep him and Draco safe from sight.

 

 “This is far enough,” the woman said, releasing the child so suddenly that they stumbled and fell. The child's clothes were ragged and torn, in sharp contrast to the woman's, whose garments, while poor in taste (being far too tight and scant for an autumn day), looked very new. The sight of it was horribly familiar to Harry.  It may have been years ago, but he could still remember the days when his clothes were so threadbare, and so ill fitted that they did nothing to protect him from the elements.

 

 “You know why we're here, don't you Tara?” the woman asked. 

 

The child (probably a she?) merely shook her head.

 

 “You're going to pay me back for everything you put me through. Years and years of feeding you. Years of buying you clothes. Years of giving up parties, losing boyfriend, after boyfriend, everything!  I should have had an abortion, but I gave up everything for you!” 

 

The child wiped her nose on her sleeve, and Harry heard Draco make a noise of repugnance.  But he paid his friend no heed, too intent on the scene before him. 

 

The woman loomed over the child, whose brown eyes were enormous and bloodshot from crying.  “I saw you the other day, you know. I always thought that there was something unnatural about you, something  _ freakish _ .”  The words made Harry feel ill with a sense of both familiarity and foreboding.

 

 “I bet your father was the same.  He certainly managed to disappear off the face of the Earth, as soon as I told him about you.” The woman began to recite a string of crude swears, listing everything that was wrong with the little girl's father.

 

 “Merlin,”  Draco muttered, “I always knew that muggles were vulgar, but her mouth is just foul.  If I ever start talking like that, just  _ Avada Kedavra _ me, Harry.”

 

Harry shushed him, causing Draco to bore a hole through his skull with his eyes.

 

 “But yes, I saw what happened when Britney’s doberman came after you,” the woman continued. 

 

The child's eyes widened, fresh tears springing to her eyes. “It was n’accident!  I didn't mean to do that!  It was going to kill me!”

 

The woman snorted. “God, stop being such an blubbering little baby!”

 

The child nodded pitifully, and held her breath as if that would stem the tide of tears. 

 

 “One moment that dog was on top of you, and of course you had to shriek like a bloody banshee, as if it really was going to do you any harm.”  The woman’s tone was cruel and mocking, and she stepped forward, indifferent to the way the child recoiled. “ And then -” the woman balled and then flicked out all her fingers, “ _ poof _ !  the mutt’s bloody  _ gone _ , and in its place is a hideous ol’ plush toy.”

 

Harry's eyes widened.  If the woman's account was true, then what she was describing sounded like accidental magic.  And if that were the case, it meant that the child might be a muggleborn. 

 

The child shook her head. “I didn't mean to!  I didn't know that was going to happen!”

 

 “It makes me wonder about all the other stuff you might have ruined over the years.  My leather purse! Was that you too?  My sunglasses?”

 

 “I never t-touched them!”  the child cried. “I swear! You told me never to touch your stuff, ‘member?”

 

The woman let out a disgusted sound. “God! Wipe that disgusting snotty nose of yours!  I hate looking at you!” 

 

The child was quick to obey, her face suffused with the deep red of shame, and her head bowed.

 

 “But you're going to make it up to me now, aren't you?”

 

The child's head snapped back up, her expression lost as she gazed at her mother with an expression of hope tinged fear.

 

 “After all,” the woman said, “if you can turn a dog into something you want, then you can turn any other sort of junk into something _ I _ want.”

 

 “Mum?” the child anxiously questioned.

 

The woman removed a bracelet from her wrist, one of many. “Make it real,” the woman commanded.

 

The child shook her head.  “I-I can’t!  I don't know how!”

 

 “Just concentrate and do whatever you did, you little shit!  I want it to be real gold, and real sapphires.”

 

 “This is bad,”  Draco said, and Harry nodded in agreement.  “If that little wretch is a mudblood, she  _ can't  _ show muggles her magic.”

 

Harry turned to glare at his friend, unable to believe Draco's complete lack of compassion. “What's wrong with you?” he demanded, but before Draco could reply, their attention was pulled back to the scene in front of them. The child's eyes were squeezed shut, her face a vivid red as she attempted to obey her mother's commands. The girl was holding her breath, her skin mottling almost purple, until she could hold it in no more, and she gusted out aloud exhale, swaying, and blinking down at the unchanged bracelet.

 

But the woman was unsatisfied, bending down and shaking the child so hard that her head bobbled like a sapling in a hurricane.  “What?  You can only perform your tricks if it's something  _ you  _ want? After everything I've done for you, you can't even do anything for me?  Your own mum?”

 

 “I'm t-trying!” the child pleaded, choked by another bout of tears. “I’m  _ r-really _ trying!”

 

 “Try harder!”  The woman was all but shrieking in the child's face. She straightened up, her face almost as florid as her daughter's, hands fisting and relaxing, fisting and relaxing, a clear sign of the aggression saturating through her veins, priming her muscles. 

 

 “I-I’m sorry.  I can’t,” the child whimpered, and Draco muttered: “Probably not a mudblood after all.  I wouldn't be surprise if the mother had been sotted the whole time.  She looks like the sort of slime who lives in the bottom of a bottle.”

 

 “You can't?” the woman repeated. “You mean you won't.”

 

 “I can’t!”

 

The woman was nearly trembling now, as if barely able to hold back the gale of anger whipping within her.  “Can’t?  Can’t?!” She cut herself off, staring down at the child with so much hate that Harry felt goose-pimples rising on his skin.

 

 “Can we get out of here?  Nothing's happening,” Draco groused, but Harry shook his head, refusing to leave. How could Draco be so oblivious to the signs?  Harry had dealt with abusive people before, and everything he saw caused his senses to scream danger.

 

The woman's eyes had taken on a strange glassy quality, and her voice seem to float, as if detaching itself from emotions. “I see what's going on.  It all makes sense now.”

 

 “Mum?”  As if she too sensed the threat, the child begin to back away. “Mum, please!  I swear, I’m trying!” 

 

 “But you yourself said you can't, Tara.  But I think I finally understand how your freakish powers work.  You thought that dog was going to kill you, didn't you?” The woman closed the gap between her and the child. “That means that if I I'm going to get what I want, you're going to have to think that I'm going to kill you.” The woman paused and blinked.  “No.  No, that’s not right. I'm going to have to  _ actually  _ try to kill you.”  A hideous grin spread across the woman's face, looking more like a predatory bearing of teeth than any sort of smile.

 

 “I don't understand,” the child whimpered. “Mum, I don't understand.”

 

 “Just give me what I want,” the woman said, before leaping forward, hands like claws, and bearing her weight down upon the child's tiny neck. “Give me want I want!  Give me what I want, you little shit!”  the woman shrieked, as the child tried to fight her off, her efforts completely ineffectual. The bracelet in the child's hand did not change, but the wind began to stir in chaotic and unnatural whorls, whipping against the woman and child as if they lay at the very eye of a storm.

 

Unable to tolerate anymore, Harry zoomed forward, but his motion was halted by Draco who was gripping his robes, refusing to let go.

 

 “Let go of me!” Harry snarled, jerking himself forward with enough force to break free of Draco's grasp.  Instinctively, he reached for his wand, completely forgetting that the wand at hand wasn't the familiar ‘betrayer,’ but instead, was a relatively untried wand that he had made.

 

He aimed the wand at the woman, letting out a cry of frustration when his magic failed to obey his will.  He saw the child looking towards him, her eyes bulging, and her skin becoming purplish, and it was a matter of heartbeats before he finally remembered.

 

_ Avada Kedavra  _ was on the tip of his tongue.  After all, he had heard Draco mentioning the spell earlier.  But Harry had never tried the killing curse before, and though he knew that he felt enough rage to cast it, he dared not risk an untried spell when a child's life was at risk.  “ _ Stupefy _ !” 

 

He felt his magic flowing through his body, moving towards the base of his wand, but just as he had said to Draco, it was as if the magic was trying to force its way through a clogged pipe. The pressure of his magic seem to build in his wand arm, making his teeth and bones buzz in the worst sort of way. But Harry didn't care. He inhaled, held his breath, and pushed his magic through. It came forth in a terrible explosion, the tip of his wand flying apart as a beam of light shot towards the woman, hitting her with such force that she was flung against the nearby trees, her skull snapping back with a crack, and her body crumpling like a discarded puppet.

 

He leapt off his broom, and crouched by the child's side, ruined wand quickly tossed aside and forgotten. “Are you all right?”  The child was taking in gasping breaths, the effort laboured and painful.  She looked at Harry with enormous brown eyes, and then over at her mother who lay unmoving.

 

 “Is -  is she dead?” the child rasped.

 

Harry glanced towards the limp body, eyes hardening. “I don't know.” (‘And I don’t care,’ his thoughts added).  Moments later, Draco had also dismounted from his broom and was at Harry's side. 

 

 “Merlin -” Draco stared at the crumpled muggle woman.  “Merlin, Morgaine and bloody Salazar!  I can't believe you did that.”

 

Harry felt his guilt beginning to pinch.

 

 “I've always wanted to be able to hex a muggle,” Draco added breathlessly, and Harry's guilt melted away, as he shook his head and gave his friend a wobbly smile.

 

 “Don't be ridiculous, Draco.”

 

 “Y-you’re flying.  On brooms!” the child squeaked. 

 

Draco's eyebrows pulled downwards. “She can see the brooms. Guess that makes her a mudblood after all.”

 

Harry frowned, surveying the child. “Are you hurt anywhere? Besides your neck?” He grimaced at the sight of those angry red marks marring the narrow column.

 

 “What  _ are  _ you?”  the child asked.

 

Draco gave a supercilious tilt of his chin. “We're wizards.”

 

 “And you're a witch,” Harry added softly.  A sense of disquiet began to worm under his skin. “What are we going to do with you?”  He spoke more to himself than to Draco or the child, and to his surprise, the child answered.

 

 “Don't leave me here!”

 

Harry's lips drew downwards. “Are you from the village? Do you have family - other than that woman.”  He flicked a glance over to the unconscious woman, barely able to hide his disgust.

 

The child shook her head. “ No one,” she answered, half-whispering.  “No one.”

 

Harry looked over at Draco, “What are we going to do?”

 

 “What do you mean, what are we going to do? We're going back to the manor.”

 

Harry jutted his chin obstinately. “ I meant about her.  Tara. That's your name right?  Tar-ah?”

 

The child nodded.

 

 “Ugh,” Draco shuddered. “ What a dreadfully common name.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “You could say the same about my name.”

 

 “Yeah, but you're different!”

 

Harry returned his attention to the child.  “So -”

 

 “Take me with you?   _ Please _ ?  I have nowhere else to go.”

 

Draco gave the child an incredulous look. “You can go back to your mother after she sees a Healer.  We are  _ not  _ bringing this child with us to the manor.”

 

 “Draco, she  _ can't  _ go back to her mother. Didn't you see what just happened?”

 

The child reached out and clutched Harry's robes. “Please let me come with you?  I'll be good! I swear to God!”

 

Draco sneered. “Your God means nothing to me.” 

 

But Harry had decided. “We're taking her with us.”

 

 “What?!” Draco squawked. “No!”

 

Harry was already lost in his own thoughts. “ We'll have to keep her a secret. No one can know about her but us.  Oh!  We can get Dobby to help. She can stay in my chambers - no one enters my room but you and Dobby.  Dobby can bring her food too.  And books.”  Harry nodded to himself. “This is going to work.”

 

 “Harry,  _ No _ .”

 

Harry's green eyes met Draco's grey ones, his expression permitting no compromise.  “We're doing this.”  He shifted his weight forward, a subconscious gesture of protectiveness towards the child.

 

 “We. Are.  _ Not _ . And do you know what is going to happen if my father ever finds her?  He will kill her. He won't even think twice.”

 

“Your father isn't going to find her.  I will make sure that she isn't found.”  Harry was unyielding, but after a silent war of stares, something in Harry's face shifted. “I thought you always wanted something to look after, Draco.”

 

 “Yes, like a  _ pet _ .”

 

 “And?”

 

Draco gawped at his friend. “Did you just - did I hear you correctly?  Are you trying to suggest that I make a little mudblood my pet?”

 

 “I didn't say it. You did.”

 

Draco's eyes slid over to the little girl. “You don't want to be a pet.  I don't even think mudbloods can be trained!”

 

The child's chocolate eyes met Draco's.  “I can be good.”

 

Draco blanched, shaking his head in disbelief. “We are not doing this.”

 

But Harry was already standing, placing his broom between his legs and urging the girl to her feet. “Have you ever ridden a broom before?”  But then he laughed at his foolish question. “I can't believe I just asked that.  Come on Tara, it's easy. You can sit in front of me, and I'll guide the way back.”

 

 “Harry!” Draco moaned, and it was the moan of someone who knew that he had lost. “You're the worst best friend I've ever had in my whole life!”

 

Harry looked over his shoulder, flashing his teeth. “And you're the best best friend that anyone could ever imagine.”  Pinkness stained Draco's cheeks, as his pleasure at the compliment easily conquered his dismay. “Will you invite her through the protective enchantments?”

 

Draco let out a long and dramatic sigh, his shoulders slumping in emphasis (though his parents would disapprove if they saw). “Fine.  She’s welcome at the manor.”

 

Harry beamed, and soon after, lifted off, as Tara squealed in surprise.  He tightened his grip on his broom, knowing that despite his optimistic words, his life had just become significantly more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't mean to put dobermans in a bad light. I used to have one, but I do remember that people were often afraid of her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Draco**

 

A soft snick caused Draco to look up from the illustrated book propped on his stomach towards the secret passageway between his room and Harry's.  He had been reclining on his divan, but he straightened up, pleased about the prospect of seeing Harry (even if he saw Harry everyday).  However, instead of short hair and pale skin, he was greeted by the sight of long hair, dusky skin, and immense inquisitive eyes. It was the blasted mudblood and Draco's mouth twisted into a scowl. He should have known.  After all, Harry had been called away by the Dark Lord.

 

The mudblood had been hidden away in Harry's room for nearly three weeks, and in all that time, Draco had not grown to be better disposed towards her. The child clung to Harry like a limpet, and instead of disentangling himself like a reasonable person, Harry allowed the mudblood’s impertinent behaviour.  It was intolerable!  It was as if the conniving little child knew that he and Harry were best friends, and was determined to wedge her way between them, destroying everything. Draco wasn't fooled by those big innocent eyes, and that guileless expression. That was because it wasn't a guileless expression; the mudblood was crafty and sly.  He was sure of it. 

 

But what he felt wasn't jealousy.  Malfoy's did not feel jealous.  Draco's father had always said that the wizarding world was for Malfoys to inherit, which meant that the very concept of jealousy should have been inconceivable.  So why, then, would Draco be plagued by this needling discomfort?  Why would he ever yearn for something that someone else had?  A growl of frustration rumbled in the back of his throat. He did  _ not  _ want to have the same sort of bond as Harry and the mudblood.  He was Harry's best friend, for Merlin's sake. If anything, it was the mudblood’s fault for being so clingy.  Harry was just too nice.

 

 “What are you doing here?” he snarled at the girl, making sure that his words were tipped with venom.

 

The girl flinched, and seem to curl into herself like a snail retreating into its shell. But Draco wasn't fooled by the act. 

 

 “Well?”

 

 “Idon’twanna -” The rest of the girl’s speech was an indecipherable mumble. That and her little speech had been directed to the floor. 

 

 “Haven’t those muggles ever taught you how to speak?”

 

 “I said, I don’t wanna be by myself.” 

 

Draco frowned. “ Well that's just too bad, isn't it.” He returned his attention to his illustrated puzzle book, refusing to give the mudblood another glance. 

 

 “Can I stay here with you?”

 

Draco lowered his book once again, feeling his eye twitch, but he kept his eyes fixed on the far wall. “No.” 

 

 “Please?”

 

 “Has no one ever taught you the meaning of no?”

 

 “ I won't make a sound. I swear!  Pinky swear! You won't even know I'm here. I'll sit down right here.”

 

To Draco's great displeasure, he heard the girl plunk down on the floor.  To make matters even worse, he turned to look at her, which only confirmed that she had plunked herself down on his floor. And just as mystifying was the way that she held out her pinky finger towards him.  What kind of muggle madness was this?

 

 “Don't point your appendages at me!  And get out of my room!  I don't want you here.”

 

The girl’s lower lip began to wobble. Her eyes took on a shimmering sheen, and her expression was even more doleful than Vince’s or Greg's faces when he told them that there was no cake left. He felt something uncomfortable in his chest, as if there was a snake mucking about inside him, squeezing things that it shouldn't have been squeezing.

 

 “Stop that!” he hissed. For some reason, that only caused her lip to wobble even more, and the snake in his chest squeezed even harder. 

 

 “Just go away!”

 

The girl sniffed, and her eyes overflowed, tears streaking down her cheeks.  “O-okay.” 

 

Merlin!  Draco couldn't bear to look.  She made it sound as if he had just instigated a ban on candy, or birthdays, or some other thing that was completely unreasonable. It was as if she thought he were a villain, when really it was the muggles and mudbloods who were the villains, while purebloods were usually the exalted heroes. She was making everything all topsy-turvy, and it was driving him mad. 

 

He heard the scrape of her footsteps as she stood up and shuffled away, and the sound was like sandpaper rubbing against his insides.

 

 “Fine!” he burst out. “Stay! I don’t care!” 

 

 “R-really?”

 

 “No!”

 

The girl whimpered.  The inner snake twisted painfully.

 

 “Yes!  Just stay. And stop being so annoying!”

 

She gave him a perplexed look (but Draco had a very low opinion of the intelligence of mudbloods, so that was no surprise), and sat back down, wrapping her arms around her knees which were tucked against her chest.

 

 “And stop looking at me!” Draco added for good measure.  With that, he forced his attention back to his puzzle book, determined to blot the existence of the mudblood out of his mind. 

 

Unfortunately, Draco could just as soon blot out a speck of mud that stained a pair of dress robes, as he could blot out the presence of the vexatious girl. His eyes drifted away from the page as he attempted a covert glance in her direction. He wasn't  _ curious  _ about her. If anything, she was like a bug, and if there was a bug in his room, he would want to know exactly where it was at all times. Had she shifted closer to him? It was hard to tell when he was trying to look at her out of the corner of his eyes. Better to try to work out the puzzle before him which happened to be a maze, except instead of a bird's eye view, it was a first person point of view, filled with riddles, mysteries, and mini-puzzles to give hints about which direction to take. This particular maze was neither a hedge maze, nor a labyrinth, but instead was a lava maze, artfully depicting the heart of a volcano. Draco never realized that volcanoes could be so boring. That was surely the only reason why his eyes kept slipping away towards the annoying little mudblood.  In fact -

 

 “You moved!” Draco accused. The girl blinked up at him, with that fake-innocent look. “You were sitting all the way over there.  I don't want you near me!  You'll contaminate me with your - your - muddiness!” 

 

The girl looked down at herself, as if she thought that he meant the statement literally. Of course Draco knew that she wasn't actually muddy.  He was referring to the muddiness of her essence.  But how was he supposed to explain something like that?  And why did her eyes have to get all shiny again? 

 

 “Merlin,” he moaned. “Don't start crying.  Not again.  It's too awful!” 

 

Lip wobbling ensued. 

 

 “Noo!  Not that either!  Here!  Look!   It's a puzzle book.  I daresay you've never seen anything like it, have you?  Of course not.  Muggles don't have nice things.” 

 

The girl wiped away the wetness of her eyes with her sleeve, and peered at the open book. “Magic?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

 

Completely oblivious to his tone of voice, the girl’s expression brightened.  Draco was vaguely aware that Harry had been trying to teach the child about magic, but since Draco had been determined to ignore the existence of the mudblood, he didn't know the extent of her knowledge.  But considering that she was a mudblood, whatever intellect that she possessed was probably vastly inferior. 

 

 “How does it work?”

 

Draco looked back towards the book. “It's a maze.  Only, if you get stuck or bored (and bored is so much more likely), you can just close the book, instead of being trapped in the maze.”  He shifted to the angle of the book so that she could have a clearer view.

 

 “But it just looks like a bunch of black boulders sticking out of lava in some big dark space.” The girl pointed towards the centre of the illustration, and Draco jerked the book out of her reach.  “Or do the boulders make a pathway?  And that’s lava right?  Because it’s bubbling.  But it looks like a drawing too.”

 

“Yes,” Draco said impatiently, “because that's what it is.  You have to think about which direction you want to go in to move.  See?  I'm thinking about moving forward.”

 

The girl’s eyes widened as the scene in the book began to shift, ‘stepping’ from boulder to boulder.  Draco directed the scene forward until he came to a dead end, the black pathway abruptly leading to only fatal magma.  But there was no reason to turn around yet.  Not when there was an engraved plaque upon the smooth boulder floor, painted a shiny silver. 

 

 “What does it say?” the girl asked, breathlessly.

 

Draco felt his lips curl cruelly.  Of course she couldn't read. Of course.  He directed the scene downwards towards the plaque. “ _ Of everything you own, I’m the hardest thing to keep; I’m the easiest to guard, when you’re lying in your sleep. If you have me, you’ll feel longing ere to give me all away; If you share me I’ll be gone, for if I’m shared I cannot stay. _ ”

 

 “What does it mean?”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes.  “It's riddle, obviously.”

 

 “A riddle,” the girl echoed. “Is it a balloon?  I'm never able to keep balloons.  And if I give them away, then I don't have them anymore.”

 

 “And in what way is it easy to guard balloons when you are asleep?” he asked derisively.

 

The girl's mouth formed ‘o’ but she seemed oblivious to Draco's tone.  A wrinkle appeared between her brows as she thought.  Draco shook his head and returned his attention to the riddle.  He hadn't been particularly interested before, but at the moment he felt the urge to prove just how much more intelligent a pure-blood could be (ignoring the fact that the girl was a couple of years younger than him). 

 

 “A secret!” he declared, and seconds later, something jutted out of the black boulder, stretched forward into a long narrow bridge, appearing as if being drawn by an invisible hand. 

 

The girl looked up at him, eyes enormous with awe. “That’s amazing!” 

 

 “I know,” Draco replied, smug.

 

Draco continued with the puzzle, deciding that it wasn't so boring after all.  It was rather good way to stretch his mental capacities, not that it was difficult.  No, not difficult at all. And the further that he moved along in the maze, the more delighted the girl became.  Of course, Draco cared nothing about the mudblood’s delight.  But he thought that by showing her how clever he was, she would better understand her place. 

 

Eventually, he reached the very end of the maze, which was the heart of the volcano. There was a beautiful figure there of a fire elemental holding an enormous ruby.  Draco urged the scene forward, and the fire elemental lowered its arms, handing Draco the gem which would appear in a treasure chest drawn at the very back of the book. After all, it wasn't a real gem - only an illustration. Pleased with himself, he lowered the book down onto his lap.

 

 “Can we do another one? Please?” the girl beseeched.

 

Draco pursed his lips, dithering.

 

 “I know that I can't help you very much with the puzzles.  But you're so smart!  I like to watch you solve them.”

 

Draco felt something warm spreading through his core.  He figured that it was just pleasure from receiving rightfully-deserved praise. “Well, when you put it like that - I suppose we could do another one.”  He thinned his lips. “ But it's giving me a crick in my neck to have you kneeling on the floor while I work out the puzzles.  Sit next to me.” 

 

The girl’s eyes grew wide, the moments later she was scrambling up on the divan and pressing against his side like a determined little octopus. Draco grimaced, about to push her away, but then he decided that if she was sitting so close, it would be much easier for both of them to see the puzzle book.  And really, it wasn't  _ that  _ horrible. Thus decided, he turned the page to the next puzzle, feeling strangely eager for the chance to test his wits. 

 

-o-

 

Draco met with his father every Wednesday afternoon, during which time his father evaluated everything that Draco had learned during the week, assessed his overall behaviour, and taught Draco about what it meant to be the Head of a most Ancient and Noble House.

 

 “Praos mentioned that you were struggling with some of the names of the players during the coup of 1745, that gave Dark families a hold over the Ministry for nearly half a century?”

 

Draco pouted, before remembering that his father found such gestures to be puerile and beneath him. “I remembered  _ most  _ of the names - names of families that are still around.  But I just don't see why I need to know every single person that had been involved in the coup.  It happened centuries ago!  Besides, it's not like Harry remembered every name either.” 

 

 “You aren't Harry. You are a Malfoy.”

 

 “Well, Harry's a Black.”

 

His father’s nostrils flared, and he looked for a moment as if he was about to say something. But then he collected himself, giving Draco a hard look that made him wilt in his seat. His father had always had that power over him, his words either filling Draco with soaring pride or shrinking discomfiture. 

 

 “You are, in many ways, still a child.” Draco opened his mouth to argue his father's words, but something in his father's eyes made him change his mind and snap his mouth shut. “Yes. A child.  And yet, you are my heir, and I think you are old enough for what I am about to tell you.”

 

Draco straightened, his curiosity now seized.

 

 “This conversation is to stay between us, you understand, wizard to wizard. Do not give me reason to regret putting my trust in you.”

 

Draco's eyes widened, and he said a hasty: “Yes, father.” 

 

His father gave him an assessing look before nodding. “You are my only son, and though your mother and I have told you time and time again that we wished for no more than one child, our explanations to you have never conveyed the full scope of the situation.” 

 

 “So all those times I asked why I didn't have a brother or sister -”

 

His father nodded. “Yes, we merely gave you a tale that was expedient to tell - one that would be easy for you to understand.” 

 

 “So why don't I have any brothers and sisters?”

 

 “Your mother had an challenging pregnancy.  Unexpectedly so, considering the Blacks had always been rather - fecund. I had always thought we would have more children, but complications arose and we were lucky to even have you.  Naturally, you're all I could ever wish for in an heir. But it does mean that there is a greater weight upon your shoulders as the sole Malfoy. You will not have siblings to look out for your interests.  You will not have siblings who can marry into other powerful families to create stronger alliances. I have spent my life and continue to spend my life working to ensure that your future is secure.  You know that all that I do, I do for the Malfoy name, and for you.”

 

Draco's eyes were wide as he said: “Yes, father.”

 

 “Of course, none of this must reach your mother's ears.  It would only distress her to think of it.”

 

 “Yes, father,” Draco repeated.

 

 “You are still young, but perhaps not too young to learn an important lesson. You, of course, know the history of the Ancient House of Malfoys.”  His father waited for him to nod before continuing. “Then you know that the family fortune has changed over the ages.  You have grown up knowing no lack, and neither your mother nor I wanted you to suffer any disadvantages.  And yet, it was only a generation ago that the Malfoy vaults were once again filled with galleons after generations of privation, thanks to some judicious investments of your grandfather.  I have done all that I could to build up that fortune, and yet, what fortune gives, it can easily take away.

 

 “You may feel that the future is secure, but it is not secure enough, Draco.  My ambition, my drive, is to gather all that I can to the Malfoy name and ensure its continuance. The alliances I have made, the favours I have granted, the person I have chosen to serve - these are all decisions I have made with the Malfoy future in mind.  And you, Draco, you are that future.” His father's eyes seemed burn with a bright conviction, the words cementing themselves in Draco's mind, giving him insight into why his father had always been so driven, when, to Draco, it had always seemed like the world was their toybox. 

 

 “We must do everything we can to protect our legacy.  We must do everything we can to preserve who we are.  And the greatest threat to who we are are the muggles, and with them, the mudbloods.” 

 

Draco knit his brows, suddenly thinking about the little girl upstairs. “Are mudbloods really that dangerous?”

 

His father’s expression turned scornful.  “Individually, of course not.  The magic that mudbloods possess could never compare to the magic that pure-bloods hold. That is the truth. Unfortunately, there are those in our world who are blind to the danger that the mudbloods represent. There are those of great power such as Dumbledore who bend themselves over for the mudbloods, unable to see how it pollutes our great society. They willingly and openly permit this contamination into our world, unable to see to how it weakens us all, bringing their muggle ways and muggle dangers.”

 

 “But - isn't it possible to, well, teach the mudbloods?  Isn't there any way we could make them less dangerous?  If we could show them that wizarding ways were so much better, couldn't they be made to understand?”

 

His father narrowed his eyes. “You are still innocent to the ways of the world.  There are a great number of things you don't understand.”

 

 “But what if mudbloods  _ could  _ learn?” Draco pushed.

 

 “Don't be a fool.” His father's voice had taken on a caustic and dangerous edge. “Have I not made things clear enough? Who do you think would be the ones to teach the mudbloods? Those of us who are enlightened, those of us who know best would hardly think to degrade ourselves by subjecting ourselves to the presence of the mudbloods.  Who would make such a sacrifice?  Who would risk themselves being stained by that  _ filthy _ presence? The wise keep themselves apart for a reason. If you muck about in dung, it should be no surprise when a smell begins to linger.  But you should understand this, Draco.  Your mother and I have certainly taught you well enough.”

 

Unsure of what to say, Draco merely said: “Yes, father.”  Surely his father knew best.  Which meant that it was definitely wrong for Harry to keep that little mudblood up in his room.  They would have to get rid of her as soon as possible.  There was no way that Draco would want to marr himself with the stench of mudbloods.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

 “Holly!  Where  _ are  _ you?”

 

Holly tucked herself tighter into the space between the sofa and the wall, hoping that Clara wouldn't find her.  Clara’s sing-song voice was distant, but her footsteps seem to be coming closer. Guilt wriggled like restless eels within her, but she found Clara's company to be exhausting. The other girl seem to be a bottomless well of energy, claiming every possible moment of Holly's attention (as well as the attention of both her parents), and even that wasn't enough. She thought back to Mr Snape's words, which seemed like something from lifetimes ago: ‘You will behave yourself.’  She felt like a failure. 

 

Her new family (if family was what it could be called), had been unfailingly kind to her. Yes, Porcia was rather overbearing, and Wendell was rather distant, but they treated their own daughter the same way. As for Clara, she behaved just as she had vowed, those many weeks ago, treating Holly as if Holly were a sister. Holly knew that she should have been happy.  So why then was she so despondent? And why was she so tired?

 

 “Holly?” Clara's voice was even louder.  She paused, and Holly held her breath.  But then the soft thud of footfalls told her that Clara was going away, and she breathed a sigh of relief. All she wanted to do was be able to read in peace, never mind being able to draw.  All she wanted was a moment to herself, without Clara's sunny interference, and smiling intrusions, as Clara attempted to pull her into some game of dress-up or make-believe or exploding snap or gobstones. As sweet-natured as Clara might be, she didn't seem to grasp the idea that just because she found something fun, it didn't automatically mean that Holly felt the same way. 

 

Once she was sure that Clara was gone, Holly emerged from her hiding spot.  She would have remained there, except that it was far too cramped, even for someone as small as herself.  Instead, she climbed into one of the armchairs which was angled so that someone who was peering into the room couldn't immediately see her.  It was a comfortable spot, and while it might have less privacy than her bedroom, the truth was that her bedroom was usually the first place that Clara looked for her, and there was nowhere there to hide. 

 

She had a book hidden away in her pocket, but her emotions were too unsettled, flapping within her chest like those birds that had accidentally flown indoors and couldn't find their way out.  Fortunately, she had a small drawing pad as well, generously given to her by Clara who had said that she found drawing to be boring.  Holly had never shown Clara her drawings - how could she?  She was grateful that Clara had given her the drawing pad, but she was also aware that Porcia and Wendell spared no expense for their daughter, and Clara had probably forgotten all about the little gift. 

 

With a black pastel, she began to set her feelings upon paper, letting her tension slowly ease away as the image took form.  She did not think about what she was drawing - she only drew.

 

 “Holly!”

 

Holly started, and slammed the drawing pad closed, stuffing it within her pocket.

 

 “There you are, Holly!” Came Porcia’s voice. “Clara-bear has been looking  _ everywhere  _ for you. Didn't you know?” She walked around the armchair and crouched down in front of Holly, resting a hand on Holly’s knee. “You know that there's no reason for you to be alone, Holly. Professor Dumbledore told me about how your previous guardian hadn't been in a position to take care of you -”  Holly felt herself tense, resenting Porcia’s words about Mr Snape, “but things are different here.  We care about you, Holly.  We want you to be part of the family.”

 

The guilt that Holly had been feeling gained new power, gorging itself on Porcia’s words. She couldn't bring herself to meet Porcia’s pale, yet warm eyes. 

 

Porcia’s hand gently squeezed her knee. “There's no need for you to be shy.  I know that Clara-bear sees you as her best friend, and it warms my heart. I'll take you to her now.”

 

A silent but powerless voice within Holly screamed: No!  But louder than that was the voice of Mr Snape, repeating: Behave yourself, behave yourself, behave yourself. She permitted Porcia to lead her off the armchair, and up the stairs to Clara’s room. 

 

-o-

 

 “Let's play Camelot.” 

 

Holly was tired of playing Camelot and she had developed and intense loathing for Guinevere. How could anyone have sympathy for a queen who couldn't even remain loyal to King Arthur?  To make matters worse, anytime she tried to deviate from the script, to refuse Sir Lancelot's (usually played by a plush teddy bear) horrible advances, Clara became unhappy with her.  She glanced towards Clara, who was lying on her bed with her head hanging off the edge to look at Holly upside down. “I’d rather not.  We've played Camelot too many times already.” 

 

 “But Camelot’s fun!”

 

Holly could barely hold in her grimace. She had been here for over a month now, and if there was one thing that she was starting to realize, it was that there was nowhere to really hide.  Even if Clara failed to find her, Porcia or even Wendell would somehow stumble upon her, and take her back to Clara. She felt, at times, as if she was trapped in a maze, where no matter which direction she went, it would always take her back to the same point.  But she should be grateful, she reminded herself.  She should be grateful.

 

 “What about if I read out loud to you,” Holly suggested.

 

Clara hummed. “Fairy stories?  Or _The_ _Tales of Beedle the Bard_? Oh, I know! _The Unicorn Princess_!”

 

 “We've already read all of those stories before.  I was thinking, if you like stories, I could read you another history again.”

 

 “History?” Clara moaned. “Oh no you don't!  Last time you wanted to read me history, you told me that it would be just like any other story, but it was soooo boring!  I nearly fell asleep!  I'm not falling for that again.” 

 

 “Well, that might have been because I was reading to you about the treaty between wizarding-kind and the sirens of Greece.  There isn't always a lot of action when treaties are being drawn.  What about if I read you something else?  Like about the giant wars?”

 

 “Wars?  I don't care about wars.  I want something fun - oh!  With a happily ever after.  And two people falling in love!  Love stories are my favourite.”

 

 “Then what about the account of the Rosier-Black marriage negotiations of the 1760s?  it's quite interesting - the family had been feuding for generations, and had been hoping that a marriage could bring about an alliance of peace.”

 

Clara let out an exaggerated groan. “I don't want to hear about anything  _ real _ . I want to hear something fantastical! Or, what if we just played Odyssey instead? I can be Circe, and you can be Odysseus!” 

 

 “Odysseus isn't even a girl - or magical for that matter.  I'd rather not play Odyssey.”  Holly sighed and bit down on her lower lip. “What if I went down to your parents bookshelf, and I picked a selection of books, and then you can pick what you want me to read.”

 

 “ _ Fine _ .  Ugh.  If you must.  It's a good thing I like you so much, otherwise, I’d think that you weren't a very good friend.  You always want to do other stuff, while I act like a  _ true  _ sister.”

 

 “That's not true,” Holly argued. “We always play what you want to play.”

 

Clara, who was still lying on her back, crossed her arms and kicked up her legs. “No we don’t!  I'm letting you read to me now.  I wanted to play Camelot instead.  Besides, you play Guinevere really well.” 

 

Holly wasn't sure whether to be insulted or complimented by Clara’s remark. So she merely said: “I'll go downstairs now, and see if there's anything you might want me to read.”

 

Knowing how fussy Clara could be, Holly carefully sifted through the selection of books, only choosing those that she thought might interest the other girl, while still having a basis in history.  She found herself reflecting on Clara’s words.  Was Clara right?  Was she a bad friend and sister?  She thought back to Harry - to the way that he had chosen Draco as a best friend over her, and the idea seemed to choke her.  Maybe she was a bad friend.  How could both Harry and Clara be wrong? 

 

Resolving to try to do a little better, she finally selected five books, hoping that at least one would be to Clara’s taste. Books stacked in her arms, she climbed back up the stairs and braced herself for Clara’s company. Tensing her cheek muscles, she forced her lips into a smile and entered her bedroom. However, the sight that met her eyes caused her mouth to fall open and she dropped the books that she had been holding.

 

Clara was sitting on her bed, and all around her where sheets and sheets of Holly's drawings, as well as her drawing pad.  How had Clara found them?  Had the other girl been rummaging around through her belongings while Holly was gone?

 

Clara's expression was nakedly horrified.  She looked up at Holly with enormous and distressed eyes, filled with wetness, and Holly felt her heart trip, falter, plummet. “What - is this?” Clara shook her head. “It's horrible!  Horrible!  Horrible!”  And she began to rip the drawings apart. 

 

 “Please!  Clara, no!”  Holly dashed forward, desperate to save her drawings.  They might not depict beautiful things, but they still represented who she was and there was something completely dreadful about watching them being destroyed, as if Clara was ripping apart more than just illustrations; as if Clara was ripping apart her essence.

 

Clara shrieked. “Get rid of it Holly!  Get rid of it all!  I can't bear it! Mummmmy!!”  What seemed like only seconds later, came the sound of pounding footsteps as Porcia and then Wendell burst into the room.

 

 “What's going on?” Porcia cried. “Clara-bear!”

 

 “It's horrible!” Clara wailed, tears now pouring down her cheeks, hand clutching ragged bits of paper.  “It's monstrous! Mummy, get rid of it!  Tell Holly to stop!” 

 

But Holly was now crying too, even if it wasn't the noisy sobs that burst from Clara’s mouth. She was still trying to gather up all the drawings that she could, but Clara kept tearing, and tearing them apart, ripping the nearby parchment into shreds. 

 

 “Holly! Clara!  Tell me what’s going on?” Porcia exclaimed, but then Wendell’s voice interrupted, his normally bland voice sounding hollowed out, almost hoarse.

 

 “Dear - look at t-this.” 

 

And when Holly looked in Porcia’s and Wendell’s direction, she saw that Wendell was holding up one of her drawings.  Both of them looked at Holly then, aghast.  They looked at her as if she had just peeled off her skin to reveal a grotesque monster underneath.  They looked at her as if she was something not-human. Holly felt sick.

 

Porcia dashed over to Clara's side, wrapping protective arms around her shoulder, and making soothing sounds.  Neither of them could meet Holly's eyes.  Holly heard Wendell say: “I’ll Floo Albus immediately,” and then he left the room.

 

She could still feel hot tears dripping down her face, but she picked up the rest of her drawings in silence, trying to salvage what she could, while ignoring the whimpered sobs and gasping breaths of Clara and Porcia.  And then, even though it was supposed to be her own room, she couldn't bear to remain in Clara’s and Porcia’s presence, and slipped out into the hallway, feeling her legs suddenly lose strength.  Her back against the wall, she slid down to the floor, clutching her drawings to her chest, now crying in earnest. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Harry**

 

The rain was coming down in prohibitive sheets of grey that would cause even the stoutest hearts to waver at the prospect of venturing outside, nevermind flying. Harry and Draco needed only to look out their window to know that they would not be mounting their brooms after their lessons, to know that winter was looming ever nearer.  But Harry didn't particularly mind; attempting to fly while keeping Tara hidden was a greater logistical challenge than he wanted to puzzle out, especially after a long and trying lesson. But as he looked over at Draco, a feeling of worry held tight to his lungs and throat, and clipped short the feeling of relief from knowing that their lessons were over. He had thought that Draco was coming to accept Tara, that she might be an amusing (and admittedly heartwarming) diversion in their lives, but something had changed and Draco was more determined than ever to be rid of the girl.

 

 “Are you coming up to my room?”  Harry asked. In the past, no such question had ever needed to be put forth, but Tara’s presence had changed everything. He watched the play of emotions that flickered across Draco's face, glad that his friend was never able to properly mask what he was feeling.  When all of Draco’s capricious whims were catered to, there had never been a need to hide anything.  He saw stubbornness battling against uncertainty, desire warring against repulsion.  Draco’s eyes met his own, and he saw a whisper of pleading there, and knew that Draco didn’t want to make this choice on his own.

 

 “Come to my room.” This time, Draco nodded, and though the grey eyes warned mutiny, Harry knew that Draco would not protest.  Why did Draco have to be so obstinate?

 

Up in Harry’s room, Tara greeted him by crying out his name, and casting her arms at him in a jumble of limbs.  Not for the first time, he wondered how a child, whose mother had attempted to kill her, could possibly be filled with such boundless affection.  Perhaps it was because Tara was young, and knew no better.  He closed his eyes and felt a bittersweet ache in his chest.  Bringing Tara into the lair of the Malfoys had been a reckless and dangerous course of action, but as the girl clung to him, he could feel no regrets.  But Tara’s affection was not for Harry alone.  If it had been, he would have better understood Draco’s misgivings.  

 

Tara had unwoven herself from him, and was now wrapped around Draco like a determined vine seeking out a firm grip to which it could entwine its tendrils.  She did not say his name (Draco thought that such familiarity was impertinent), but let out a contented hum.  Harry could feel his lips twitching as Draco resigned himself and submitted to the warmth of the young girl, bemusement clear on his face.

 

 “You can release me from your grappling,” Draco said, though the asperity of his words were belied by the gentleness of his tone.  Tara gave him a final squeeze before releasing him.  

 

She peered over at Harry, expression puppyish, and asked: “What are we doing today?  Can I help you work on your wands?” She glanced back at Draco.

 

 “You are not touching any of my works with those clumsy hands!” Draco declared, clearly offended by the very notion.

 

 “You can help me with mine.”  Wand-making was tricky enough that both Harry and Draco had multiple strips of wood prepared, and Harry was less attached to his efforts than Draco.  If Tara should ruin one of the branches, it would be a small loss, but if she somehow managed to help, then it was a clear win for all.

 

 “Here.”  Harry handed her a thin strip of aspen. “You can peel away the bark on this one.” She took the aspen eagerly, as if the work he offered her was a reward rather than a labour, and sat down cross-legged on the rug to begin peeling.

 

 “Merlin.” Draco shook his head. “Sit on the chair like a proper witch.” Harry wondered if Draco noticed that he had stopped calling Tara a mudblood - at least to her face.

 

 “Yessir,” Tara said, causing Harry to frown.  How Draco ever managed to convince the child's call him ‘sir’ was beyond him.  Besides, it sounded _wrong_. And yet, it pleased Draco so Harry merely shook his head, and began working on his own wand, a project that was nearer to completion.

 

 “ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ,” Draco incanted, causing one of the sofa cushions to twitch.  He shook his head, brows knitting.

 

 “Finished already?” Harry wondered.

 

Draco shook his head. “Not quite.  Just wanted to test this one out.  It works, at least, but it still feels -” he shook the birch wand as if it was a wet rag, “resistant.  I think I'm starting to understand what you mean about magic being blocked. It’s -” he thwacked the wand against his palm, “so -” thwack, “annoying!”

 

 “Well, abusing the wand isn't going to help,” Harry pointed out.

 

 “Can I help?” Tara chirped.

 

 “You?  What can you do?” Draco asked derisively, but upon seeing her face crumple, he added: “It's complicated.  I'm sure Harry needs your help more.”  That seemed enough to soothe Tara's feelings, and she returned to her task at hand.

 

Harry looks down at his own project.  After a more thorough reading of _An Extended History of Wand-Making_ , he had started to carve runes along the length of his wands. He did not have skill enough to hollow out a smooth path for the core of his wand in which to channel his magic, but carving runes into his wand offered an alternate method of stabilizing the flow of magic, a crutch of sorts. This was easier said than done, however.  It was necessary for the runes to be carved perfectly, or the flow of magic would be hindered, or would even backfire.  Furthermore, adding more runes did not necessarily result in a better wand, and could potentially even interact in unpredictable manners with unfortunate results.  He had had to be saved from a wild burst of flame, an uncontrollable gush of water, and a nauseating swirl of sparks on more than one occasion, and if not for Dobby, he didn't know what state his room would be in.  He wasn't sure if the elder Malfoys would forgive him if he destroyed their ancestral home. He had learned that following the set of runes laid out in the book was a far wiser course than ignorant experimentation.  And though the pattern for strength had intrigued him, he opted instead for a pattern of stability and control.

 

Carving completed, he gripped the base of the wand, trying to sense out the feel of it.  He pointed his wand at one of the pillows, uttering: “ _Wingardium Leviosa_ !”  He and Draco had learned long ago that a backfiring _Lumos_ could set their wands afire.  The levitation charm was one of the safest to perform.

 

He felt his magic rushing through his veins, frolicking and eager, pouring out towards his wand. To his delight, the flow of magic was honey-smooth, but he could feel the energy struggling to push through the too narrow aperture of his wand.  The pillow jerked, before floating upwards, it's motions surprisingly smooth.  It was Harry’s best effort yet.

 

He tried _Lumos_ next, followed by series of increasingly dangerous spells.  The wand was nowhere near as responsive or powerful as the ‘betrayer,’ and yet, it willingly obeyed, despite its relative weakness. For a moment, he debated adding runes of strength to the wand, before remembering that the book had advised against mixing runic frameworks.

 

 “Can I try?”  Draco asked.  Harry nodded, handing over the wand.

 

After trying his own spells, Draco frowned. “It's fighting me - as if it has a mind of its own.”

 

 “I think your own wand will have less resistance.”

 

 “It's amazing!” Tara piped up, eyes as round as the full moon, shining with awe. “You're amazing!”

 

Harry pressed his lips together, struggling to hold back his smile as Draco’s cheeks coloured.  He wasn't sure if it was merely an accident, or if it was perceptiveness on Tara’s part, but she had a tendency to pour compliments onto Draco with generous abandon, effectively thawing away his defenses.

 

 “It's not that impressive,” Draco muttered, handing the wand back to Harry.

 

Disinclined to start on another branch, Harry practiced a few more spells, trying to feel for the personality of his completed wand.  It performed all his incantations to his satisfaction, but when he tried to move the pillow without words, something that the ‘betrayer’ would have done with ease, the flow of magic was too piddling to have an effect, his coiling power limited by the wand’s narrow outlet. And of course, trying to physically widen the hollow of the wand would have no effect - the movement of magic had nothing to do with the wideness of the wand’s center.  It was all to do with the finicky magic of wand-making.  He sighed, laying the wand upon his palm, trailing his fingers down the length of it.  Would it be more powerful with another wood?  Another core?  And yet, why would he want another core than his mama’s hair?

 

With a start, he realized that he couldn't remember the last time that he had visited Bellatrix.  Was it when he went to collect her hair for their wands so long ago?  When had he become so negligent of her?  The feeling of guilt was so intense it nearly bowled him over, his recent accomplishments shrivelling to dust in the face of it.  He shouldn't have forgotten.  He was a terrible son.

 

Harry stood up suddenly. “I'm going to go visit my mother.”

 

 “Pardon?” Draco asked, bewildered.

 

 “It's been too long. I - I need to see her.”

 

Draco set down his own work-in-progress, and stood up, his face set with an inexplicable determination. “I'll come with you.”

 

 “Can I come too?”  Tara interjected, her voice infused with hope.  It was difficult enough for her to remain in Harry's rooms when he and Draco were away at their lessons.  Since bringing her here, he had endeavoured to spend as much of his free moments as he could with her, and yet -

 

 “It might be frightening for you,” Harry said with gentleness, not wanting Tara to take his words as a rejection.  It was painful enough to even admit that others might find his mama frightening, but Lady Aloli, Lucius, and even the Dark Lord had taught him better than to ignore the truth.

 

Tara’s expression became uncertain, her dark eyes straying as if viewing an unwanted memory, and Harry felt his guilt amplify for causing her to remember the wounds of her past.  But then her eyes lifted up to his, brimming with a childish resolution borne of innocence, as she said: “I want to come with you.”

 

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek (knowing that biting down on his lips would give away too much), before nodding, tucking his new wand away in his pocket.  The three of them ventured towards the wing of the manor where Bellatrix stayed, taking a circuitous route lest they run into Draco's parents. In front of those familiar doors, Harry found himself faltering, wondering what had happened to his earlier tide of determination.  He wasn't _afraid_.  He was just -

 

Harry sighed, shoring up his will, and pushing the door open before any more of his weakness could cripple him. The first thing that he noticed was the smell. The manor rooms were protected by number of smells meant to keep them clean and free from odours, but there was no escaping the air of decay, ripe, sickly-sweet and nauseating.  The second thing that he noticed was the darkness.  Weren't there house-elves that were supposed to be taking care of his mama?

 

 “Wait here,” Harry ordered, before venturing into the room and throwing open the windows.  He turned towards the bed, his eyes inexorably pulled to Bellatrix. She looked worse - far worse than he could remember. He was aware that there were spells cast to protect her, to maintain her state, and yet she looked even more gaunt then he could remember, her skin more gray than white. The hair that tumbled over her shoulders was drab and limp, devoid of any shine that would proclaim health, and he could not bring herself to meet her eyes, and look upon those milky sightless orbs.

 

Voice breaking, he said: “Mama,” falling to his knees at her feet.  He took one of her skeletal hands, pressing it to his cheeks, realizing moments later that those cheeks were damp with tears.  When had he started crying?  

 

He found his mind drifting to Holly, wondering how his sister fared, wondering if she felt the same bottomless chasm within her chest at his absence.  He missed her more than words could express, but he had long since learned not to worry about her.  Uncle Lucius, Aunt Narcissa, even the Dark Lord had made mention of how ineffectual the Light side was - of how none of them would dare to harm Holly.  It kept him sane to believe it.  He did not know how much time had passed, but after a while, he heard Draco's voice at the door, tentative and questioning.

 

 “Harry?  Can we - should we come in?”

 

 “Yeah.” Realizing how weak and shattered his voice sounded, he cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

 

He knew that Draco was acquainted with the sight of Bellatrix, but flinched when he heard Tara’s gasp.  He should have known better then to allow her here, here where she would be frightened, and here where he would be vulnerable, emotionally defenseless. The two of them made their way to his side, and despite Draco's earlier remarks about sitting on the floor, they settled next to him, Tara nearly in his lap as she clutched at his hand, while Draco pressed against his shoulder.

 

 “Are you all right?”  Draco asked.

 

It was too difficult to keep his voice calm and clear through the thickness in his throat, and so Harry merely nodded.

 

 “Is this magic too?” came Tara’s small voice, and it took a moment for Harry to realize that she was referring to Bellatrix.  With a start, he realized that while he and Draco had been showing her the more fantastical and wondrous aspects of magic, this was the first time that Tara would have witnessed anything darker.

 

Voice roughened by emotion, he said: “Yeah.”

 

 “She's your mum?”

 

 “Yeah.”

 

 “Hrmm. If she's your mum then - then she must be good because you’re good too,” Tara determined, with the simple logic that only a child could offer. Her remark startled a smile across his face.

 

Feeling something warm settling within him, he said, once more: “Yeah.”

 

The three of them sat there as the sun continued its journey across the sky, in something akin to contentment, with only trace amounts of lingering sadness.  But just as Harry was about to suggest that they return to their rooms, a loud pop stilled his tongue, discarding his thoughts to that dark place where unvoiced matters went to die, forgotten.

 

 “The Dark Lord commands Master Harry’s presence,” the house elf said, quailing.

 

Harry felt something leaping within him, tried to tell himself that it was disappointment from being parted from Draco and Tara, but disappointment had never caused his heart to skitter so.  It had been a while since the Dark Lord wanted to see him.  No one could accuse the man of being predictable. Nodding gravely at the house, he said: “I'll be right there.”

 

Gently, he extricated himself from Tara and Draco, wondering if his face showed regret or anticipation.

 

 “Can I -”

 

He quickly cut Tara off. “No.  Stay with Draco.  I’ve said this before, but the Dark Lord is dangerous, do you understand?”

 

Tara's expression was edged with doubt, and Harry felt a chill across his skin.  He needed Tara to understand. “He's more dangerous than your mother, Tara.  He would hurt you more than she ever could have done.  Do you understand?”  The words teetered towards being cruel, but Harry felt them necessary. Eyes wide and fearful, Tara nodded.  It was only then that Harry gave her a nod in reply, before leaving to answer the Dark Lord's summons.

 

 “Wait!” Tara cried out, the words immobilizing him as effectively as any spell. “If he's dangerous, then what about you?”

 

The words spread through him like the warmth of a sweet cup of tea. “I'll be fine.  I promise.”

 

As Harry entered the familiar drawing room, letting the Dark Lord's magic fill his lungs and slide through his bloodstream, he sensed that something was different. The Dark Lord was seated at his usual chair, posture languid and indifferent with one leg crossed over the other, but his magic sang a different song than his body language, wild, tightly wound, like a predator so close to its kill that the taste of hot blood already sat upon its tongue, heady and metallic and strangely terrible. In one of his hands, he gripped a nondescript black book, and as Harry’s eyes drifted over it, he felt an uncomfortable tingle of presentiment.

 

He met the Dark Lord's eyes for a heartbeat, before sweeping into a bow blotted by the irony in his heart, murmuring: “My Lord.”

 

When he straightened up, the Dark Lord's posture hadn't changed, but his magic had.  That magic seem to darken and coalesce around him, as menacing as the giant hand of an angry god.  It swirled balefully, beautifully, acting as ungovernable as eddies of wind, belying the Dark Lord’s meticulous control, before it coated every inch of Harry’s physical form, as intimate as an extra layer of skin, and he realized that he was trapped by an invisible prison shaped like his body.  

 

He attempted to move his arms, tilt his head, step forward, step back, but it was to no avail.  He strained every muscle, his teeth gritted with effort, and still nothing.  Within that prison, his senses soon lost all semblance of order, his heart now pounding against his ribs with the force of a battering ram, his skin slick with a cold sweat, his mind rearing like a panicked horse, trampling all logic to useless bits. He felt that magic squeezing him, a sensation reminiscent of apparition, but worse - at least with apparition, one knew that such a feeling was merely a side effect, with no lasting damage.  But what he was experiencing now was a slow crush, a preamble to death.

 

With no more than a twitch of his fingers, the Dark Lord's magic ardently obeyed his will, and Harry flew towards the other man in a smooth glide as if the floor were ice, and the magic was no more than a push at his back.  Harry’s mind failed to gather itself, unable to bear this strange state of vivid sensory awareness, combined with complete helplessness. It was infinitely worse than the full body-bind curse, _Petrificus Totalus_ , for at least with the body-bind curse, one was merely paralyzed, but Harry was most certainly not paralyzed.  No, his muscles screamed, his bones creaked, but the magic that coated him lacked even the slightest breach, as unforgiving as the Dark Lord himself.

 

The corners of the Dark Lord's lips tilted up in a smile as devoid of warmth as the dark side of the moon.  Bitterness seem to bleed into that smile, turning it into an ugly thing upon the man's beautiful face. “It seems that each life I extinguish only serves to make me feel increasingly worse and yet -” he paused, giving gravity to that moment of silence, “I can't seem to stop myself.”

 

‘He's going to kill me,’ Harry thought, not for the first time, and not for the first time believing it. What drew him to this?  What compelled his feet forward, into the Dark Lord’s drawing room, where each moment might be his last, where regrets blared in his mind as he thought: ‘Holly, Holly, Holly.’  Why did it seem as though he never thought of her as fervently as he did when he was with the Dark Lord, staring down his own death?  Was it the Dark Lord who was the twisted one, or was it him?

 

 “I think of your death more than I think of the death of any others,” the Dark Lord continued, his velvety voice a beacon for Harry’s panicked mind to orient itself onto. “That you are a mere child - I do not know if this makes the thought of your demise more intoxicating or more repugnant. Both perhaps.”

 

The Dark Lord's magic tightened further, slow and excruciating, silencing the screams that longed to escape, as if screams were a mercy not allowed.  But then, after eternally slow seconds had passed, each moment unfathomably far from the next, the magic eased, turning into a gentle caress that lapped at his skin, deceptively kind and sweetly soothing. Harry felt himself melting into it, too raw-edged, too shamefully relieved to resist it.

 

 “You have fouled me. You have polluted the purity of my previous existence.  You have opened a new vista of pathetic experiences, and it sickens me.” The Dark Lord's eyes speared him, filled with serenity sheathed rage, and something deeper, something oozing, bleeding, sore. “You have shattered my focus, and scattered my power, and when I try to pull it back to myself, that power is wasted on unwanted _sensations_. Disgusting sensations.  Sensations that centre upon you.”

 

It disconcerted Harry to no small degree that he understood.  No, he did not find sensations disgusting, nor did not feel polluted, but there was no denying that the Dark Lord’s very existence distracted him, tore his own single-minded fixedness to shreds so that his thoughts did not solely peal: ‘Holly, Holly, Holly.’ But he said none of this; he could not when the Dark Lord’s magic muffled him more effectively than any gag.

 

The Dark Lord's eyes tore away from him, falling upon the black book, and the magic that surrounded Harry slackened its grip.

 

 “Do you know what this is?” The Dark Lord asked, his thumb brushing against the cover of the book.  Harry made no reply. How could he when the Dark Lords magic continued to smother his voice?  But the Dark Lord expected no answer. “This is a life.  This is a death.  This marks the very first life that I took.  It was a mark of pride at the time.”  His brows wrinkled slightly, sculpted lips curving downwards. “A young life, cut short. What would she have done with that life?  Wasted it most likely, accomplishing nothing more than one or two puling brats at her hips, and some hated menial job filing reports in the ministry, if that.”

 

The Dark Lord paused, his eyes still shaded by his fan of eyelashes as he stared at the book. “But what if my assumptions were misguided?  What if the girl might have done something worthy with her life?” His eyes shot back to Harry, penetrating and feral. “What is this?” he hissed. “What is this repulsive sensation?”

 

The Dark Lord must have seen something in Harry's eyes, because the magic around his mouth stilling the vibrations of his vocal cords cleared away, and only then did it occur to Harry that the Dark Lord's magic had tasted bitter, earthy, with a lingering whisper of sweetness.

 

 “Well?”

 

Harry's heart still thrummed from the close press of death, its skeletal hand tracing a line down the back of his neck in a gesture of deep familiarity that made him shiver. “It sounds like regret.”

 

 “Regret,” the Dark Lord echoed, though his words were imbued with a sinister threat.

 

Wondering if he had some terrible wish for death, Harry explicated. “You've questioned your own actions.  You've wondered if you made the -” he did not dare to say wrong, “if you've made a choice based on false assumptions.  It could be - remorse.”

 

 “Remorse.” The words were spoken softly, quiet in the way that the footsteps of predators were quiet, a prelude to an attack. “ _Remorse_.”

 

The conflagration that flared in the Dark Lord's eyes was the only warning he had before that rich magic closed on him again, squeezing with an unrelenting pressure that made him think: ‘Is this what Holly felt when mama tortured her?’  His cries of pain rent through the air, ricocheting wildly within his skull as blood vessels burst and his bones seem to crack. He did not know how long his torment continued, and pain distorted the measure of time, stretching it to agonizing lengths.  It was only when he sensed blackness creeping at the edges of his consciousness that the Dark Lord’s magic eased, and in that desperately needed moment of reprieve, Harry waited and waited for the toxic feeling of hatred to rise, but hatred would not come.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

 “Professor Dumbledore is busy with Hogwarts matters, but he will be here sometime next week.”  This is what the insipid Wendell, with his dishwater hair and his colourless voice,  had told her.

 

He was, at the moment, the only person in the house who dared speak to her.  Otherwise, she remained in her room, imprisoned not by force but by the undisguised fear and resentment that she saw in Porcia’s and Clara's eyes. They looked at her as if she had specifically created her art with the intention of harming them.  They looked at her and she could see blame written clearly upon their faces.  Holly was, to them, like some terrible beast, some monster that had to be kept away from good little girls and boys, from those who were considered innocent and deserving of good things, unlike herself.

 

Holly could bear to be alone.  She could bear it easily. What could not be borne was her current state, whereby she was isolated and yet enclosed, constantly aware of the murmur of voices and the scrape of footsteps, knowing that those sounds were not meant to be heard by her, that they were deliberately keeping themselves quiet for fear of her.  It made her feel sick.  It made her think that she made others sick.

 

She spent her time reading the same words over and over.  She yearned to put quill or pastel to parchment, to draw her feelings even if all she felt was pain, but she dared not do so while in this household. Meal times were the most awkward, with Clara shrinking away from her every time she lifted one of her utensils, until Holly quietly commented that she preferred to take her meals alone in her room, and Porcia and Clara agreed with such humiliating alacrity that it caused a sharp wrench in Holly's chest.

 

It wasn't until the following week, sometime prior to Professor Dumbledore’s arrival during this unpleasant intermission in her life, that anything changed.  She saw a movement outside her door, followed by a tentative knock. Porcia stood in the corridor, with Wendell standing behind her like a sentinel, barely even taking the effort to hide and the fact that he had his wand in hand.

 

 “Holly?  May I come in?” Porcia asked, studying Holly's face the way a dragon tamer might study an unpredictable Hungarian Horntail.  But clearly, Holly wasn't a threat enough because both of them stepped forward before she could give permission. Holly supposed that this was what came of keeping her wand a secret, and yet, she knew well enough that most children weren’t permitted wands until they were eleven, and the thought of having her wand taken away was too terrifying to contemplate.  It wasn't that she doubted her own spell-casting ability; it was just that with Harry's absence, she dared not take the risk.

 

 “Wendell and I have been talking -” Porcia took another step closer towards Holly, but the distance between them was still awkwardly wide, silently screaming the lack of intimacy and lack of trust, “and we've been thinking, well, you’re still just a child, younger than even Clara, and you deserve another chance.  I don't think you understand the nature of your drawings, do you?”

 

Holly felt something squirming within her as she tried to make sense of the friendliness in Porcia’s face, the guardedness of her eyes, and her placating tone of voice. She felt no desire to be antagonistic, but it made the hair on her neck and arms rise to be spoken to as if she were a threat. “What do you mean?”

 

Porcia and Wendell shared a speaking glance, before Porcia return her attention to Holly. “Well, Holly, do you understand why we were so upset?”

 

A spark leapt within Holly, hot and bright. “Clara was looking through my belongings.  My personal belongings.  She saw something that she wasn't supposed -”

 

 “You don't understand!” Porcia broke in, her pitch escalating alarmingly. “It doesn't matter whether Clara was supposed to see it or not - that doesn't change the fact that the things you've put on parchment, these things -” she pulled a folded sheet of parchment from her robe pockets, the sight of which caused Holly’s stomach to drop, “are terrible.  I - we - we strongly suspect that this is just accidental magic.  What else could it be?  You - you can't control it.  But it doesn't change the fact that this -” she thrust the parchment forward, “is wrong. Tell me, where do you get the idea that it's all right to draw such things?  Is it from all the books you've read?  Is it just your - your imagination?  The things you’re drawing, you can't have done them yourself, can you?”

 

Done what?  Holly wasn't even entirely certain which of her drawings Porcia had taken.  She couldn't tell what Porcia was referencing, but she hadn't done _anything_. Things had been done to her.

 

 “I haven't done things myself.”

 

Upon hearing her words, Porcia seem to deflate, pressing her weight against Wendell.  She gave Holly are relieved smile. “I didn't think so.  I thought you'd be too young to understand, and I'm right.  We’re - we’re going to have to keep an eye on what you read, and I have to ask that you never draw anything like this again, do you understand, Holly dear?  You can draw other things - nice things, like - like kneazles, and puffskeins, and flowers and - and castles, all right? You can draw me if you like, or Clara or Wendell, but you mustn't ever draw any of those other things.  Can you do that for me?  We don't want for you to leave.”

 

The words seemed to cause Holly’s entire body to seize up. Porcia’s tone may have been brassy and bright, but all Holly could hear was a threat.  She had to obey their rules, or she would be made to leave.  And if she was forced to leave, where would she go?  Would she be allowed to return to Mr Snape?  She quickly stamped down her hope, not daring to allow it to burgeon within her.  Mr Snape had told her to behave.  If she didn't behave now, then how could he ever want her back?

 

 “All right,” Holly agreed, emotions muted. “I - I won't draw any of those other things.  I'll draw - animals and flowers and castles.”

 

Porcia’s cheeks dimpled, her smile firm, but not entirely reaching her eyes. “I'm so pleased to hear it.  I'm sure Clara will be happy to hear it too.”

 

Holly knew that things wouldn't be the same, but she didn't really believe that her situation could worsen.  A small sliver of optimism had buried itself in her mind, and she thought that perhaps her life might settle into a tolerable in-between state, where she could enjoy being on the outskirts of a family, while not being thrust into the center of Clara's unrelenting demands for her attention.

 

The week slid by, and then another, and when Holly asked Porcia when Professor Dumbledore would come, Porcia’s answer was: “Oh, we informed him that we solved the problem on our own.  No need to bring Professor Dumbledore in when everything is all sorted out, and everyone is happy.”

 

Holly hadn't exactly wanted to see Professor Dumbledore, and yet he had been her only link to Mr Snape, and she felt a sudden awareness of being marooned, surrounded by people who wanted her presence so long as she wasn't herself.  She had stopped creating art, thinking that perhaps she could merely bury all that she felt, hastily tossing her emotions into some shallow grave. She convinced herself that Guinevere wasn’t _so_ awful, and that she really didn’t mind Odysseus.  And yet -

 

 “Mum doesn’t want you to read anything related to battles and wars!” Clara declared, head popping over Holly’s shoulder as she perused the titles on the downstairs bookshelf.

 

Holly smiled tightly.  “It’s just history.  It’s dry, and no blood is ever mentioned.”

 

Clara paled, eyes bulging as she backed away from Holly, as if Holly had, in that moment, contracted rabies. “I’m telling mum you said ‘blood!’” And she swerved around, dashing out of the sitting room, to leave Holly mired in a sense of failure mingled with helplessness.

 

Clara returned moments later, dragging her mother behind her, bouncing with self-satisfaction.

 

 “Holly,” Porcia began, with that mollifying tone, “Clara-bear says that you’re reading something inappropriate?”

 

 “I only wanted to read some history.  Please, Porcia?  I -” she thought of Mr Snape, “I only want to better myself.  To learn.”

 

Porcia shook her head, a smile plastered on her face.  “You must trust that we know what’s best for you.  I can’t have you reading about anything so distressing as war.”

 

 “But -”

 

 “No buts!”  Porcia stepped up to the bookshelf, and plucked a picture book brimming with pictures of winged horses galloping across rainbows. “This is appropriate for someone your age.  Give it a chance, Holly dear.  It’s one of Clara’s favourites.” Holly stared down at the cover, at the simplistic and saccharine title meant to fill her mind with fluff and sugar, taunting her with how little she could relate to such merry things.

 

 “I’ll even let you read it to me, if you’d like!” Clara piped up, chin high with pride as her mother squeezed her shoulder with approbation.

 

And in another instance, another scene of her ‘new’ life -

 

 “Take it,” Clara commanded.

 

Holly looked up from where she was sitting on her bed to the pale-blue phial in Clara’s hands.

 

 “It’s a potion for Dreamless Sleep,” Clara explained.

 

Still, Holly’s expression remained blank.

 

Clara huffed with an exasperation. “It's to _help_ you. I told mum that you were crying out in your sleep.  You've been having nightmares, right?”

 

 “You what?  You listen to me when I sleep?”

 

 “I heard you making noises when I got up to use the loo,” Clara explained.

 

Holly frowned. “I appreciate it, but -” while it was true that her nightmares still persisted, her dreams still remained her only opportunity to ever see Harry.  She couldn't bear to lose her dreams, she simply couldn't, “ I won't take it.”

 

Clara's eyes and her grip on the phial hardened. “You don't know what's best for yourself.  Mum and dad both said so.”

 

Holly shook her head, feeling as if Clara's words were draining the air from the room. “Please, Clara, I'm fine, all right?  My dreams aren't really bad dreams - I’d rather -”

 

 “No!” Clara's eyes were shining with wetness, but instead of turning around and calling for her mother, she walked up to Holly's side, and sat down on her bed. “Don't you see?  You're so much better now!  You read books that are fun, and you play more, and everything is just - just - good!  This is how it's meant to be, to be sisters.  Don't you want that?”

 

Holly couldn't meet Clara's eyes, instead pinning her gaze on the glass phial. “I -”

 

 “I thought you cared about me.”

 

Holly's muscles tensed.  She hated to be manipulated, hated to be surrounded by people who couldn't even be subtle about it.  And yet, beneath Clara's words was a sincerity, and it was that which held her in check.

 

 “But don't you care about me?” Holly returned.

 

Clara nodded fervently. “I do.  That's why I want you to take the potion.”

 

 “Please, don’t -” Gently, she attempted to push Clara's hand away.

 

Clara trembled for a moment, her eyes once again flinty. “I'm not going to have a row with you.  Not about this.  I promised myself that we would never fight, and I'm going to keep that promise.”

 

Confused, Holly shook her head.  But Clara had already climbed off her bed, and was leaving her room.  Hope unfurled within her, as she realized that Clara had accepted her refusal.  With time, would Clara learn to accept other things as well?

 

That evening, her mug of steamed milk tasted a little funny, and when she fell asleep that night, Holly did not dream.

 

The longer she remained, the more Holly was beginning to feel like a declawed Kneazle, completely at the mercy of Clara’s caprices. The shallow grave where she buried her emotions was now more like a mountain of corpses.  It wasn't a deliberate choice, but somehow, she found her way to some coloured inks and parchment.  

 

She began to draw again.

 

 “What are you doing?” Clara chirped, skipping her way into Holly's room, and without waiting for an answer, asked: “D’you wanna play Unicorns and Maidens?”

 

Holly, who was using a book as a flat surface, was too preoccupied with her drawing to reply with anything more than a hum.

 

 “Holly!  Are you even listening?”

 

Holly was so weary. She felt as if every direction she turned to led to another trap.  She could trust nothing that she ate.  She had no place that she could go.  She found no pleasure in games, for in games, she could not even play who she wanted to be.  She had no respite in dreams, for she did not dream, not anymore.

 

 “Holly?  Are you - drawing?”

 

But Holly has been well behaved, hadn’t she?  She read the books that she was permitted to read, and she ate the potion-laced food that was placed in front of her, and she played make-believe of characters that she hated, and even now, she was drawing flowers, just flowers, just a single rose on a thorny stem blooming in mid-winter, and what was wrong with that?

 

 “Holly!”

 

One moment, she was tracing out the veins on the saw-tooth leaves, and the next, the parchment was yanked out from under her.  Holly felt no anger; she merely blinked at the blank cover of the book, bled dry of all her emotions - emotions which seeped into each petal of the rose, each exquisitely curved thorn, each line of ink on the parchment.

 

It was only when Porcia and Wendell burst into the room, that Holly realized that Clara was screaming, screaming, a sound as sweet and pure as birdsong in the spring.

 

 “What have you done?” Porcia wailed. “What have you done to my Clara-bear?  What have you done?!”

 

Wendell had pulled out his wand, lips pressed in a grave line, sending out a red beam that she recognized as the stunning spell, and in that split second before she lost consciousness, she thought: ‘I've done to her what she's done to me,’ and she smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a block when it comes to this story. I knew, from the previous story, that I would bring the Dark Lord back to life, but didn't anticipate how much Harry's actions would change him, so I feel like I haven't fully figured out his personality yet.
> 
> I'm also thinking of re-writing the Feral Twins. I feel like these two stories don't match. I thought I posted this chapter last weekend, but apparently not, so I'll post the next one mid-week.
> 
> Thanks for reading though!


	12. Chapter 12

**Draco**

 

Draco was lying in Harry’s bed, his face nuzzled against the silky white pillows. The pillows smelled like Harry.  The sheets and thick duvet smelled like Harry.  Everything in this room smelled like Harry, and as long as he closed his eyes, he could pretend that Harry was here, and not wonder why he even knew what his best friend smelled like.  If asked, he would have merely said that Harry smelled familiar (like earthiness, peppery leaves, warmth - but this part wouldn't have been said out loud). 

 

Harry had been absent for nearly a fortnight.  It might have been longer - Draco had lost sense of time long ago, each agonizing minute, hour, day, stretching and stretching like fibers of wool, ever thinner and longer, ever more far apart.  He would rush down the stairs, would stand before the Dark Lord’s drawing room doors, would face that harrowing, oppressive, breath-expelling, limb-trembling, (bowel-weakening, life-crushing) magic, except for one thing that stilled his feet.  The girl.  The mud -  no Harry wouldn't want him to say it - she was just ‘the girl.’  Just a muggle-born girl, almost as frightened as he was.  Harry would want for her to be safe.  That was the only reason she was lying cocooned in his arms, her breathing slightly laboured in her shallow sleep, after yet another bout of pitiful crying. 

 

Draco did not cry.  His eyes stung and prickled, and his throat was suffocated by his own wretched heart, but he merely held his breath, held down his weakness, exhaled a ragged breath, pressed his nails into his palms, and _ did not _ cry.  Harry was fine.  Harry was  _ fine _ .  Wasn't he?  He had to be.  Draco felt like he would  _ know  _ if something was wrong with Harry, pushing away the moans in his head that wailed out: ‘He's dead!  Oh Merlin, he's dead!  Dead, dead, dead!’ 

 

 “He's not dead,” Draco whispered to himself. “I'll kill him myself if he dares to die on me.”  It would be unforgivable.  Beyond unforgivable.

 

Beside him, he felt the girl begin to stir, making soft snuffling sounds, and then whimpering. “Sir?” Her voice was scratchy. Miserable though he was, the word puffed his pride, made him feel as if he had some measure of authority (and in the case of the girl, he did). 

 

She turned to face him, wriggling against him like a kitten. “Will Harry be back today?”

 

He could smell her.  She smelled like soap, feathers, and something sugary.  He felt something igniting within him, and inexplicable burst of scalding resentment, red behind his eyes.  How dare she come here, with her strange existence, and her strange smell, leaving her presence, her odour all over Harry's bed.  How dare she be here while Harry was gone.  How dare she ask after Harry when she could never value him the way that Draco did.  He felt the urge to shove her with all his strength, throw her off the bed, throw her out of his life, out of Harry’s life.  He felt like screaming at Harry for caring about her, for burdening him with the unwanted responsibility. 

 

If she wasn't here, there would be nothing holding him back from storming down to the Dark Lord’s drawing room and fetching Harry back.  If she wasn't here, he would risk that terrible danger. 

 

 ‘Don't lie. Don't lie,’ a voice within him taunted. ‘You'd still be scared.  Too scared to do anything.  you're using her as an excuse.  An excuse for your own -’ his mind stuttered, reared back, refusing to let himself think that he might be a coward.  If the girl wasn't here, he would go down and find Harry.  He would! 

 

 “Sir?  You’re - you’re hurting me.” 

 

He realized he was squeezing her, that his muscles were strained with tension, and he forced himself to relax, forced a lid over his resentment.  What was happening wasn't the girl's fault.  It was the Dark Lord.  It seemed like it was always the Dark Lord.  But the Dark Lord was no friend of Harry's.  Dark Lord's did not have friends; only loyal followers.  But even that was something that Draco didn't want Harry to give.  Loyalty should belong to best friends.  Everything should belong to best friends.

 

 “I don't know when Harry will be back,” he said belatedly, aware that there was a sulk in his voice, but unable to stop it. Wretched child.  Once again, he was blaming her, an easy target.

 

Unruffled by his sour mood, she pressed closer against him. “You smell ‘lot like Harry,” she said into his chest.

 

He froze, her words piercing as arrows. “Pardon?”

 

 “You smell like Harry,” she said again. “S’nice.”  His mind was working again, and it occurred to him that he and Harry used much of the same potions and products (and sometimes even shared clothes).  Was it any wonder that their scents would be similar?

 

And yet, the idea blanketed him, its warmth like the late spring sun on bare skin, filling the lonely hole somewhere between his ribs, and suddenly he decided that the girl was really quite all right. He let one of his arms fall over her (not protectively - it was just more comfortable), eyes falling closed as he sighed.  The smell of Harry was all around him, and he didn't think about how easy it was to deceive himself into believing that Harry was there.

 

-o-

 

**Harry**

 

Before Harry opened his eyes, he was already aware that he wasn't in his bedroom.  The surface that he was sleeping on was pillowy soft, yes, but it was no king-sized four poster bed with cool silky sheets, where one could sprawl out one's limbs.  But it wasn't only that; before he was even aware of his senses, before the mists of sleep had cleared from his mind, he could feel that familiar magic lapping against him.  The Dark Lord's magic, so utterly enticing, so insistent, as if hungry for an answering cry. 

 

Why in the world were his thoughts so strange?  Rationality informed him that if the Dark Lord's magic was hungry for anything, it would be for more power. His brows knit before he opened his eyes. He was greeted by the sight of the Dark Lord standing over him, and he gasped, flushing with chagrin at his failure to maintain any sort of expressionless mask.  The Dark Lord's arms were imperiously crossed, his face unreadable.  His wand was in his hand, the twirl of it reflecting the spinning of Harry's thoughts, and he was wearing a ring that Harry had never seen before.

 

 “My Lord.  What -” it occurred to him that the question he was about to ask would have been seen as impertinent, but his mind was reeling, clutching desperately at half-formed memories, slivers of reason.  What was going on?  He remembered - he remembered - magic.  He remembered a feeling of entrapment, excruciating pain.  He remembered a black book and a strange discussion.  The Dark Lord had hurt him.  Tortured him?  He searched his emotions, found no resentment, found only a whispered yearning that he couldn't understand, and so shoved aside.  A dream perhaps?

 

 ‘No,’ some part of him thought. ‘An insanity.’

 

It was likely that all his good sense had fled, because his eyes were lifting upwards to meet those of the Dark Lord’s.  And those eyes, those inky wells of darkness, were  _ lucid _ .  A feeling of cold prickled his skin. ‘I should look away.’

 

But then, the Dark Lord spoke. “I still haven’t been able to decide.”

 

 ‘Don’t answer!’ he thought, as he croaked: “Decide what?”

 

 “Whether or not to kill you.” The twirl of his wand stilled, much like the beat of Harry’s heart. “You see, I've learned something in the past fortnight.”   _ Fortnight _ ?!  “Something most repugnant.”  The Dark Lord bent forward, leaning ominously over Harry “What do you think that is?”

 

Harry could barely shake his head.  “I haven’t a clue, My Lord,” he managed to say.

 

 “No?  And yet, my new circumstances can be credited to your  _ helpful _ suggestions.” Dark eyes flashed with anger, with loathing, and something else, something that made Harry’s blood sear with weltering heat.

 

Harry frantically sifted through his memories.  And then it struck him, what they had been talking about a fortnight(!) ago.  “Regret,” he breathed out.  The Dark Lord had been speaking of someone he had killed, had murdered, and Harry had named his feelings as regret.  For a flicker of a moment, he thought of his mama, but quickly subdued the thought as irrelevant.

 

The anger had returned to the Dark Lord’s eyes, seeping into his magic, as the man hissed: “Yesss.  And how much regret might I feel, if I were to kill you?  You who have inflicted this contemptible and unwanted sensation upon me?  I wouldn’t make it quick either.  No, what I’ve felt in the past two weeks was not  _ quick _ .  It lingers still, an insufferable  _ weakness _ .  And yet -”

 

Yet?  Merlin, if only he could tear his eyes away, but the pull of that gaze was magnetic, inescapable.  He felt like some small prey animal, transfixed by the eyes of a looming snake, too witless to flee his doom.

 

 “If I were to kill you - or at least torture you senseless -  would I be free of this?  Or would the price of your agony and death rank higher than all the others?  I can see it when I close my eyes, you know - see you dying.  It’s an exquisite image.” The Dark Lord paused. “My mind is clearer now than it has been in decades.  I see now that - past actions have resulted in a situation whereby I allowed my mind to become dangerously fractured.  It’s not a mistake I shall make again.  Unfortunately, with this newfound clarity of mind, not only can I imagine your slow death in minute detail, but I can also imagine the - rather more unpleasant aftermath as well.”  The words may have held a hint of sneer, but those lips did not curl; all Harry could see was a hardness in the man’s eyes.  Was the Dark Lord actually suggesting that he would be upset about Harry’s demise?

 

And what could Harry even say?  The Dark Lord was claiming that his mind was clear, but what did that mean when all of his past actions pointed towards senseless unpredictability?  It didn't seem wise to take the man for his word.  The only thing he wanted to know was what had happened, but he had no desire to tip the scales in favour of his own death.  So, he said nothing, choosing instead to sit up, each movement measured. 

 

The silence that came after was lighter than Harry would have expected.  He thought that the Dark Lord might still be deliberating on the merits or lack thereof of keeping him alive, but the magic around him was calm, nearly purring like a cat.  It was Harry who eventually spoke.

 

 “I wouldn’t want to die”

 

The Dark Lord made a disdainful sound.

 

Harry continued: “But I wouldn’t want those around me to die either.”  He peered up at the other man.  “I think - that is, I would regret it if you were gone.”

 

This time, the Dark Lord did actually sneer. “You’d regret having access to my influence?  My power?  How mercenary.”

 

 “No.  I -” Harry felt a slight heat in his cheeks, and at the back of his neck, and he swallowed, “enjoy your presence.”  Strange to think that was true.  “I like how your magic makes me feel.”  Sometimes, he mentally added.

 

The Dark Lord was giving him an odd look now, as if he had just admitted to something outlandish, like a predilection for snogging hags.  His black brows furrowed together.  “And what does my magic make you feel?”

 

 ‘When it’s not hurting me?” Harry thought wryly.  “It makes me feel -” Nice?  Warm?  Comfortable?  Peaceful?  What could he say that wouldn’t sound hopelessly insipid and pitiful?

 

The Dark Lord let out a hum, eyebrows lifted.  “I see.”

 

 “I didn’t say anything.”

 

 “I can read it upon your face.”

 

Harry frowned, sure that he had at least a half-decent mask of self-possession.  But before he could give the matter anymore thought, the Dark Lord had moved, and to Harry’s complete shock, he sat next to him on the divan. 

 

Seeing Harry’s expression, he said, “You are reading too far much into my gesture.  I am merely making myself comfortable, as is my right.  If anything, you should be the one to stand before me.”

 

Harry blinked, wondering if he should stand.  He remained where he was.  It was disconcerting, but something about the Dark Lord felt rather more  _ human _ .  Certainly, he already looked human, but he had never quite  _ felt _ that way.  If anything, he felt more like a being of magic before, ungrounded by such things as mortal coils.

 

 “Insolent child.” The man’s wand was twirling again.  His words lacked venom. “I did very nearly kill you, you know.  Two weeks ago.  You should have seen yourself then - every inch of you bruised, your blood vessels popped, bones fractured.  It was entrancing.  I put you in a stasis before you could die, and then I contemplated remorse.  I thought of many things, and one of those things was how little I knew you.  It struck me as a shame to destroy you without learning, full well, what I would be destroying.  I did not speak much - before.  It was easier to heed only my own thoughts - to make plans.  Do you know what those plans were, Harry?”

 

 “No, My Lord.”

 

 “Of course not.  Half-formed things.  Brilliant ideas and strategies, naturally, but I was grasping for what was familiar, for power at all costs, while unable to untangle logic from the turbulence of my urges.  Anger.  Pain.  All the subtle variations of.”  Those dark eyes looked down at him.  “You don’t understand a single word of what I’m saying, do you.”

 

 “I - a bit - not really, My Lord.”

 

 “I thought as much.” 

 

After an indeterminable amount of time, most of which was spent staring at the movement of the wand, the Dark Lord said:  “Tell me about yourself, Harry.” 

 

 “Why?” Harry winced, wondering why all his reason and self-control had to flee in the presence of a person who frequently spoke of and attempted to kill him. 

 

 “Did you fail to hear any of what I said to you?”

 

Harry replayed the Dark Lord’s words in his mind, trying to sense what he meant. His brows pulled downwards, and an incipient anger began to hiss and spark within him. “You want to know about me to know what you might be killing.  You want me to tell you about myself so that you can judge my worth.  Am I supposed to pick apart the pieces of my life to try to tell you what would entertain you most?  I am more than just what has happened to me.”

 

The calm magic around him vibrated, took on a scent of sinister sharpness, keen and waiting.  Harry swallowed back the lump in his throat, but refused to give ground to the other man.  The magic thickened, enveloping him, but the feeling of danger had faded, the magic sitting more like a blanket than the press of a dagger against his skin.

 

 “Then tell me because I wish to know,” the Dark Lord eventually said. “Because I find your presence and your magic to be - more than tolerable.  Start at the beginning.” His eyes darted up towards the scar on Harry’s forehead, hidden by his hair. “You weren't always a Black.”

 

 “I -” Merlin help him, as uneasy as the Dark Lord made him, the man's words still wove around him, tugging upon him, and he felt a desire to reveal everything.  He could remember the ease with which he spoke to the man when he was still incorporeal. Harry had wanted certain things then, had wanted his family knit back together.  But now, he just wanted - what?  To draw closer to this intoxicating magic?  To know the human being beneath the Dark Lord?  The very idea was ludicrous.  ‘But you still want it,’ a voice whispered. 

 

Before he could find any more arguments against it, Harry had opened his mouth and words were tumbling from him, remarkably coherent considering the state of his mind.  He could feel the Dark Lord's magic fixating upon him, consuming each word, and it was both frightening and flattering to know that someone was  _ listening _ so deeply, to know that each piece of information that he was imparting was being absorbed, as if his story was a tangible thing. 

 

When he was done speaking, the Dark Lord murmured (so quietly that Harry wasn't even sure he heard): “Loyal Bella.  She made you for me.”

 

 “Pardon?” What did his mama have to do with anything?  And to be made?  

 

 “Never you mind.  We need to find your sister.” 

 

Harry's heart leapt, his eyes widening as he took in the man's words, thoughts of his mama falling to the wayside. “Yes.”

 

The Dark Lord's eyebrows lifted.

 

 “Yes, My Lord.” He could feel a smile trying to form on his cheeks, and pressed his lips together, not keen on looking the fool.

 

 “You will stay here with me.”

 

The ‘yes’ was already in his throat, already a pleasant feeling expanding his chest, but then he remembered Draco.  Not only Draco, but Tara as well.  “I can’t.”

 

The magic that had settled over his skin turned its acid tipped points towards him, and he felt as if he had just been dropped in the middle of a swarm of irate wasps. “What makes you think that you were being given a choice?” 

 

Harry's breathing hitched.  He looked up at those dark eyes and saw only an immovable force there, only unyielding iron. 

 

 “What do you think can keep you from me?”

 

Harry opened his mouth, before slamming it shut with a clack of teeth.  The malevolence that surrounded him was palpable, primed to annihilate anything in its path.  Draco.  Tara.  Neither of them could stand up to this, and Harry would not put them in harm’s path, because for all the Dark Lord’s talk of regret or remorse, he still spoke like a man all too willing to commit murder, and Harry did not want to think of what the Dark Lord would do if his best friend was seen as an obstacle. 

 

 “Nothing, My Lord,” he said, voice soft, but not cracking like he feared it would do.

 

The Dark Lord’s eyes were lingering, his magic still a painful, prickling thing.  “Good.  Because I’ve said it before: you belong to me.  It’s time that you understand that.”

 

Harry swallowed back his burgeoning resentment.  It tasted bitter.  He could set aside possessive words when they hadn’t meant anything, when there had been no tie between words and action.  He couldn’t set aside the words anymore, and even as the Dark Lord’s magic calmed into a caress, the acrimonious feelings were suffusing him, and he wanted desperately to be anywhere but here.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

When Holly came to consciousness, she was in an unfamiliar room, lying upon a narrow white bed.  The walls were off-white, a sharp contrast to the home of her foster family, and around her was the visible glow of magic, a pulsing red that moved in time with her own heartbeat, an orange that occasionally flickered, a green that expanded and contracted with her lungs, and several other curious markers.  There was a wide window on one wall, and if it was real (not all windows were), it showed a darkening winter sky.

 

She barely had time to think when a pale-haired stranger in lime green robes entered the room, eyeing the magical markers and vanishing them with her wand, before turning her attention to Holly.  The woman’s mannerisms were brisk and efficient, and she wore an easy confidence.  “Awake?  How are you feeling?  Miss Evans?”

 

Miss Evans?  Oh, right.  That was supposed to be her name.  “I’m - where am I?”

 

 “St Mungo’s,” the woman replied.

 

The hospital?  Why would Holly be here?  Just what had happened?  She had no recollection of being injured, and yet, she could remember an ache in her chest, and the sound of screams bounding off the walls, screams that didn’t end.

 

 “You’re perfectly healthy, no need to worry.  Professor Dumbledore brought you here.”

 

 “Professor Dumbledore?” she echoed rather dumbly.  “If I’m healthy, then -”

 

 “Oh, I should have said physically healthy.  It’s the Professor’s - and our - personal belief that it would be in your best interest for you to see a mind healer.  Certain symptoms that you’ve displayed suggest that such help would be warranted.  Oh, Merlin, listen to me - I don’t usually work in pediatrics and I’m not used to speaking to children.  What I mean to say is that we wish to help you.  It’s for the best, and it may help you adjust to your new home.”

 

 “New - home.”

 

 “Professor Dumbledore can tell you more about it.  He should be here soon enough.  In the meantime, let’s get some food in you, shall we?”

 

The food turned out to be some of the most unfortunate things she ever had the displeasure of putting in her mouth.  She was accustomed to the lavish fare of the Malfoys, the simple meals made by Mr Snape, or the frequent baked goods made by Porcia.  She wasn’t sure of what to make of the sandwich she was eating.  It was a limp and miserable thing.  She had only managed to force down a quarter of it before Professor Dumbledore arrived.

 

 “Hello, Holly,” he said in his familiar, kindly voice, his flame coloured robes making him appear like a walking bonfire brightening the sterile room.

 

An idea occurred to her, a flare of blinding hope. “Am I going back to live with Mr Snape?”

 

Professor Dumbledore blinked, perhaps having expected pleasantries in return.  Holly did not care that she was being rude.

 

 “The - the healer said that I’d be going to a new home,” Holly clarified.

 

 “Yes - I’m afraid that Porcia and Wendell simply aren’t equipped to handle a child with your needs.”

 

Holly narrowed her eyes.  “Needs?”

 

Those blue eyes softened with sympathy, and she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. “You’ve had a difficult life, and I should have taken that into account, and considered how deeply it may have affected you.  I thought that the normalcy would do you good.  In that, I erred.”

 

 “So -” she bit her lower lip, “will I go back to Mr Snape?”

 

 “I’m sorry, Holly.  He is in no position to take on such a great responsibility.  You need someone who can give you undivided attention, who can help you to express your emotions in a safe and healthy manner.”

 

She felt her hope withering, but still, she pushed.  “I feel safe with Mr Snape.”

 

Those eyes twinkled with some secret merriment. “Be that as it may, Severus is burdened by numerous other responsibilities, some of them dangerous.  It is not only important for you to be safe, but it is important for you to heal as well.  I already have a home in mind for you, someone who has experience dealing with those who have suffered a troubled past.”

 

Holly's eyes narrowed again, irked by this old man who had so much control over her life. “And what if I end up hurting this person?” she spat out, before she could stop herself. 

 

But Professor Dumbledore did not latch onto the bait. “It's my understanding that you never intended to hurt anybody, and intention can matter more than you realize.” 

 

The words smarted.  No, it was the faith that Professor Dumbledore had in her that smarted.  It felt like a lie.  She might not have intended to hurt Clara, but that didn't change the fact that hurting Clara had been intensely gratifying.  Even now, with the other girls screams ricocheting in her head, she could feel no regret.  So how could the old men have so much faith in her, except that he didn't know her, not at all. 

 

He was still speaking, but knowing that she wouldn't be returning to Mr Snape lowered the worth of those words, and they streamed over her like a barely perceptible breeze.  He had even pulled out one of her drawings, and though she itched to wrest it away from him, she managed to still her twitching fingers, and answer his questions.  Her feelings were mixed when he finally folded the drawing and tucked it away.

 

 “Do you have any questions for me?” 

 

The words pulled Holly back into the present moment. “Can I at least see Mr Snape?  Even for just a bit?  Please?”  She wondered why she wanted this so much.  Shouldn't she be asking for Harry instead?  No, that was ridiculous.  She wanted to see Mr Snape because it was possible.  Being able to see Harry was beyond the realm of possibility, so long as he was with the Malfoys, so long as he was still aligned with the Dark Lord.  The idea sat heavy in her stomach, heavy and toxic like lead. 

 

She had already braced herself for refusal, so it stunned her when Professor Dumbledore said: “That can be arranged.” 

 

The ‘really?’ sat on the tip of her tongue, but the word was too inane, and she didn't want to give the old man second thoughts.  Instead, she said: “Thank you.”

 

Blue eyes glittered as his lips tilted up in a smile, and he nodded.

 

-o-

 

Holly's first session with the mind healer turned out to be nothing like what she expected.  Of course, since she knew nothing about mind healing, she hadn't been expecting very much beyond having someone waving a wand somewhere in the proximity of her head.  Her mind healer was a dark-skinned woman with silver hair and silver eyes, of some indeterminate age.  Her eyes were not warm, but her voice was soothing, and she said something about having a great deal of experience, and something about trauma, and something about orphans, and something about the past war.

 

She asked Holly what she wanted out of these sessions.  Holly did not know, but the mind healer nodded as if this was expected. Then, the healer asked Holly to close her eyes, drawing out her wand and murmuring a phrase in Latin. The blackness behind Holly's eyes disappeared, replaced by a hilly landscape with tall grasses undulating in the wind, dotted by purple heather and yellow gorse.  The sky was a vivid cerulean, unmarred by clouds.  She could feel the heat of the sun absorbed by her black hair, smell the scent of the greenery, crisp and alive.  She could feel the brush of the grass, the uneven texture of the ground beneath.

 

 “Where am I?”

 

 “This spell creates a mindscape,” came the mind healer’s voice seemingly from everywhere at once. “It creates a safe haven within your mind where you can confront different aspects of your past without fear of harm.  And if anything you see here should be too much, just open your eyes.”

 

 “What do I need to do?”

 

 “Think of something that you need to face.  Not something too harrowing - it isn't wise to start anywhere too dangerous.  Perhaps some small frustration?” 

 

Holly pursed her lips. “Can you see what I see?”

 

 “No.  Not unless you want me to.  It would be a breach of your privacy.”  The words were a relief.

 

What would be a small frustration?  She thought about being unable to contact Harry.  She thought of how she could link to him, and feel him for a few brief moments, and yet he never linked to her.  It occurred to her that this was hardly a small matter, but an immense one, a set of chains that bound down her heart.  And then, to her surprise, Harry materialized in front of her.

 

 “Harry?”

 

 “Remember that nothing you see in your mindscape is real,” the mind healer reminded her.

 

Holly felt a sharp bite of irritation.  She knew that the mind healer couldn't see Harry, but that didn't change the fact that the mind healer was the one she was sharing a room with, and not her brother.

 

 ‘Harry?’ she thought, unwilling to speak out loud again.

 

A wide smile split Harry's face, as he said her name and rushed forward, pulling her into his arms.  Her joy spread from the center of her chest, out through her limbs, dancing across her skin.  She held him as tightly as she would cling to a life raft, wanting never to let him go.

 

 ‘I missed you so much.’  She could feel tears spilling from her eyes, leaving a spot of dampness on Harry’s robes.

 

 “If your thought is too distressing, just think of something else,” the mind healer said, and it took all of Holly's self-control to not scream out: ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’  She didn't want to remember the presence of the mind healer.  She didn't want to remember that this moment was just the product of magic and imagination.  It felt so real, down to the silken texture of Harry's hair, the softness of his skin, the scent of him, earthy and wonderful. 

 

 “I missed you too,” Harry said, voice gruff with emotion.

 

 ‘You do?’

 

 “Of course!” He pulled out of the hug, but still held her in his arms, the touch remarkably solid, replenishing her soul. “Holly, I know it will hurt you to hear this, but I'm only a product of your mind.”

 

 ‘No!’

 

 “Yes.  I am.  But I am that part of yourself that has been buried by your fears.  I know that you are afraid - that you think I might not love you the same way that you love me, but you  _ know  _ Holly, you  _ know _ .  You know that I will love you no matter what.  You know that I would be there with you if I could have done.  You know that you are the most important person to me.”

 

Her tears wouldn't stop streaming.  Her throat ached, and it was getting hard to breathe.  And yet, Harry's words were everything she needed to hear. ‘Your own words,’ a small voice in her head reminded her, a voice which she brutally stomped down.

 

Harry smile was soft, and there was something in his eyes, something a little like regret. “I never wanted to hurt you.  I only ever wanted what was best for both of us.”

 

 ‘I - I know.’

 

 “I don't want for you to be unhappy.”

 

 ‘I don't want you to be unhappy either.’

 

He hugged her again, and she let out a ragged breath, desperate to memorize everything about this moment.  But then, the sky started to fade, and the grass darkened, and the scent of medicinal potions assailed her nose, and the warmth in her arms vanished.

 

 ‘No,’ She thought. ‘No!’ Her eyes open.

 

  “Again!” she cried out. “Please, cast the spell again!”

 

The mind healer’s expression was stern. “Healing the psyche is not a thing that can be rushed, and performing the mindscape spell can do more damage than good if it is performed too frequently.  We cannot have you escaping reality only to live within your own head.  Now tell me, who is Harry?”

 

 “I -” she couldn't bear the idea of talking about her brother.  Not with some stranger, even if that stranger’s intention was to help her. “Just someone I used to know.”

 

The mind healer studied her, silver eyes all too knowing. “I won't force you to speak about what you don't wish to speak of.  That isn't my job.  I'm here to help you, Holly, but only if you let me.”

 

Holly bit down on her lip, and nodded.  But still, she said nothing of Harry.  She just couldn't.

 

Eventually, the healer jotted down some notes and then stood up. “I hope you will come to trust me eventually.”

 

Holly nodded again, but the words sounded like jumbled, meaningless sounds, when her heart and her mind chanted: ‘Harry.  Harry.’

 

-o-

 

**Severus Snape**

 

Severus knew that Albus delighted in surprises.  To expect the unexpected was all but written in his job description.  And yet, when he had been called to Albus’s office, when he had seen that dreaded sparkle in the man's eyes, he was still completely caught off guard by what Albus had to say.  To make matters worse, he could tell that Albus knew that he had been surprised, and the old wizard had to the ill-grace to look utterly tickled by this fact. 

 

 “Good afternoon, old friend,” Albus had said with his habitually unwarranted cheerfulness.  How the headmaster could act so sunny when there was a Dark Lord on the loose was beyond Severus’s comprehension.

 

 “You wish to speak to me?”  It seemed best to get to the point, but whatever it was, it couldn't have been so serious when Albus was all but glowing with what seemed like good news.  As far as Severus was concerned, the only good news he wanted to hear was if Albus declared that he had discovered how to be rid of the Dark Lord once and for all. 

 

When Albus attempted to offer him sweets, his refusal may have bordered on a growl. His raised eyebrows said: ‘Well?  Get on with it.’

 

Albus sat back in his seat, elbows on his armrest and linked together, his expression alarmingly self-satisfied. “I called you here today because of Holly.”

 

He felt immobilized, his heart seizing, but Albus’s face did not indicate that any danger had come to the girl.  Nonetheless, there was no reason to trust Albus so easily. “Holly,” he echoed tonelessly.

 

 “Holly Black.  Or as she is going by now, Holly Evans.”

 

His mouth went dry, and yet something dark bloomed within him, something like anger.  If it had been anyone else, Severus would have suspected mockery, but even now he wasn't too sure.  After all, Albus was one of the few people who knew all about his feelings for the twin’s mother, Lily Evans.

 

 “To protect her identity,” Albus added.

 

 “Naturally,” he answered, his voice soft and giving no hint to the wound that still festered in his heart. “What has the girl done?”

 

The lines between Albus’s brows evinced his disapproval, but there was no heat in the glare. “Why must you always assume the worst, Severus?”

 

 “Because life has given me every reason to.”

 

 “Ah, but life also gives us what we choose to see, does it not?” 

 

Severus did not dignify that with an answer.

 

 “As for Holly, she is currently at St Mungo’s.”

 

Every muscle in his body went taut, his sudden alertness making everything in the room sharpen.  “Oh?  Some act of infantile carelessness, I presume.” His indifferent tone belied the thrumming of his pulse.

 

 “Not quite.  But she's fine, Severus.  It was not my intention to make you worry.”

 

 “I was not worried,” he ground out. “But she was once my charge.  It would have been a waste of my time and efforts if you had went gotten her killed.”

 

Albus gave him a maddeningly knowing smile. “She asked to see you.”

 

Something within his chest tripped.  He hadn't thought that he would be remembered once Holly had made herself cozy in a new home.  He wasn't accustomed to anyone, aside from Albus, asking for him. Aware that Albus was watching him, he wrapped himself more tightly in the mantle of his self-control, and asked: “Why exactly is she in St Mungo’s, Albus?”  If the Headmaster had been one of his students, he would have been quailing in his dragonhide boots.  But Albus did not quail.  He did something worse: smile regretfully.  That expression jarred him like ice shards in his veins.

 

 “I'm afraid I may have misjudged her state of mind when I put her with Porcia.”

 

He dredged through old memories before clutching a half-remembered face, and his eyes narrowed. “Dearborn?  That silly creature?”

 

 “She's married now, so she’s a Dearborn no longer.  But yes - they had a child near to Holly's, age I thought it would do her good.  But it appears that Holly's past had weighed on her far more heavily than I realized.” 

 

Albus straightened, pulling something from one of his desk drawers, before sliding a folded parchment towards Severus.  He gave the parchment a circumspect glare, before reaching forward and taking it.  He inhaled sharply, realizing that he was giving away his own reaction, but there was no mistaking what was on the parchment: Holly's drawing.

 

The image on the paper was not as polished as some of the works he had seen when she had been drawing in his home.  The lines were hurried, as if set down furtively, and it occurred to Severus that for the vast majority of people, Holly's art would probably be a thing of horror, a thing to turn one's eyes away from.  He brought up his Occlumency shields; it was the only way he could tolerate the anguish that radiated from the image: a girl lying upon the ground, bent at unnatural angles, mouth grotesquely wide as the figure screamed.  Blackness loomed over her, blackness spilled out from her flesh, pooling beneath her.  It brought forth images of torturing muggles in his mind, of Death Eater revels, of all the brutality of war.  If he had been another man, if he hadn't experienced what he had, he would have been sick.  Instead, he felt as if his guts had been abraded raw, chest mercilessly hollowed out.  With calm fingers (that did not tremble - that had witnessed too much to tremble) he folded the parchment and set it back down on Albus’s desk.

 

With the image out of sight, the feeling of horror faded, and in its place was a cold fury.  This drawing was far worse than anything Holly had drawn while she was still living with him.  What had her foster family done to her, to cause her to feel the things that leapt forth from those pages?  He felt his magic coiling and snapping within him, eager for something to destroy, eager for something to attack.  He felt the need to  _ punish _ .  The emotions within him rattled at the cage of his self-discipline.  He knew better than to let them loose.

 

 “I asked her if she had seen or experienced what she had drawn in the image,” Albus explained.  “She said she had not.  She was quite adamant that it was merely a depiction of a nightmare.” 

 

Had Albus really believe that?  Such a pathetic lie?  Surely he, of all people, would have been able to see past it, would have known that as terrifying as nightmares were, there was an inescapable  _ truth  _ to Holly's art.

 

 “She's seeing a mind healer now,” Albus said in low tones meant to mollify him. “She'll be going to another family, to someone who is capable of helping her.”

 

His desire for vengeance (‘how dare anyone hurt Holly, how dare they make her suffer,’) raged against his desire to believe in Albus.  Did Albus not understand the magnitude of this?  Did the old wizard really believe that a session or two with a mind healer would set things to right?  But logic clamped down his emotions, reminding him that there was little he could do for the girl, that he was in no position to take care of her. 

 

 “You have no more classes for the day, if I remember correctly,” Albus remarked. “Shall we go then?”

 

The sudden change in topic would have sent him reeling, if he wasn't accustomed to dealing with unpredictable, insane Dark Lords.  A part of him wanted to protest, not because he didn't want to see Holly, but because he resented the way the Headmaster jerked him around. Instead, he nodded, letting numbness settle over him.

 

By the time they arrived at St Mungo’s, Severus felt that he had gained a firm foothold on his equilibrium.  And yet, when he stood in front of Holly’s door, control betrayed him as his pulse quickened.  He was distantly aware of Albus saying something about waiting outside, but it didn't seem important.  Why had she asked for him anyway?  He wished that he knew what to expect, but since he didn't, he braced himself for the worse.

 

He entered the small hospital room, his eyes immediately falling upon the small black-haired girl, looking horribly vulnerable in this sterile place, far more so than when she had been ensconced in Spinner’s End.  She looked up, and their eyes met, her eyes widening before a blinding smile appeared on her face, devastating the remnants of his control.  He felt his heart fly up to his throat, and his cheeks felt strange so he pressed his lips into a thin line, though even that gesture seemed like too much.

 

 “Mr Snape,” she said breathlessly, and he wondered if he was delusional to be hearing awe and elation in her voice.  Because no one in their right mind would be elated to see him. 

 

 “Holly,” he greeted.  What had happened to the usual smoothness of his voice?  Perhaps he was coming down with something.

 

 “I’m happy you’re here.”

 

He blinked, trying to find some sort of hidden meaning, some sort of irony or ridicule behind her words, but detecting none.  And what was he supposed to think, to be seeing Lily's eyes looking at him with that expression again, with openness, trust and gladness.  It was too much.  Somehow, he found a chair and crumpled into it. 

 

Holly was speaking now, hesitant at first, before chattering in a way that she never had when she had been living with him in Spinner’s End, and he thought that perhaps her stay with another family hadn't been so awful after all.  Her voice wasn't Lily’s voice, and it was this which helped him put away those old memories, deep within those painful places in his mind where they belonged.  She spoke of things she had learned from books she had read.  She apologized for not having access to potions books, and being unable to advance her knowledge.  She mentioned curious bits of theory that she did not fully understand yet (but she was trying).

 

The change in her was startling, and if she had been a student of his, the prattle would have left a vein ticking in his forehead, as he mercilessly rained cold vitriol and deducted House points.  So it was mystifying that he enjoyed letting her voice wash over him, vaguely aware that she was trying to share her  _ happiness _ .  Happiness in seeing  _ him _ .  As far as he could tell, he had never done anything to endear himself to her, unless one counted taking her away from the Dark Lord.  Even so, it boggled the mind.

 

The time slipped away from him with startling rapidity, until a healer ducked into the room to inform him that visiting hours were over.  And if Holly's joy at his presence had been a shock, so too was her doleful expression when it came time to part.

 

 “I wish I could stay with you,” he heard her say, as her eyes misted over.  And as he left, for a brief moment, he found himself wanting the same thing, before shaking off the moment of madness.  Because this wasn’t who he was, and madness was the only way he could define it.   He couldn't let himself believe anything else.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having major issues with this story, and I'm re-writing The Feral Twins (as "The Riven Twins")
> 
> Holly's and Draco's arcs are fine, but Harry's is a mess, and I realize I need to add the Dark Lord as a POV. Only, when I tried to get into his head, he has decided he disagrees with where this story is headed and won't participate. 
> 
> The re-write of the Riven Twins will be similar, but also different because of a stronger focus on Bellatrix
> 
> So, for now, this story is on hiatus.

**Harry**

 

Harry trailed his fingertips over the smooth green-veined soapstone walls of the enormous bathroom, the surface warmed with magic as if the stone had been kissed by the heat of the sun.  He had learned from Draco that Malfoy manor contained a number of secret passages, rooms, and various other hideouts.  And he had learned from the Dark Lord that one didn’t necessarily need secret passages to travel from one room to another; one merely needed power enough to distort space and create a passage where there had been none.  For example, Harry had been (mostly) certain of the fact that the Dark Lord’s drawing room had not connected to any other room, or at least connected to a bedroom and bathroom.  He had noted furniture, windows, mirrors and walls.  He had  _ not _ noted a lavish door which had materialized as the Dark Lord drew near to it, leading to a place in the manor that Harry did not recognize (and which showed a view outside the window that only made sense when one remembered that magic could create spaces that defied logic).

 

It was with this in mind that Harry had shut himself away in the bathroom, one the the very few places where he could count on being left alone by the far-too-sharp Dark Lord, scrutinizing every wall and shadow, every crevice and crack (though really, this was Malfoy manor, and there were almost no cracks to be seen).  He wanted nothing more than to leave, not forever mind, but he wanted to see Draco and Tara; he wanted to speak to Dobby and to fly; he wanted anything but to be a prisoner, no matter how luxurious the cage, no matter how charismatic the Dark Lord.  And there was no denying that whatever change the Dark Lord had wrought had made him incredibly charismatic (when he wished to be), and incredibly intelligent, which he always had been, only now that intelligence was no longer entwined with irrationality.  Or at least not the deep irrationality that had existed before.  The Dark Lord was certainly less than pleased about certain ‘sensations’ that continued to persist, as if feeling a certain range of emotions had been unfamiliar to him before. 

 

 “It will be necessary for me to research these unwelcome sensations,” the Dark Lord had told him one day, his contempt twisting his features and pulling at his puckered scars. “And if possible, rid myself of them.”  And research he did.  As far as Harry could tell, research was all he did.  If the previous Dark Lord could be said to be a brooding man, then this new Dark Lord might be said to be a man with a hunger to learn, voraciously consuming books and manuscripts, scroll and treatises, reading at such a rate that could be said to be inhuman.  Harry never would have had guessed that the sight of a man reading could ever terrify him, and yet, it did.  Could a person really rid themselves of unwanted feelings?  Could one be free of one’s pain and suffering?  The idea was unquestionably alluring.  And yet, it had nothing to do with him.

 

Harry crouched down to examine a notably dark green patch of soapstone, when a muffled voice called out: “Harry.  It's a little insulting that you would think I wouldn't notice your extended absence.  If you wished to have me believe that you were using the bathroom all this while, you might have considered leaving the taps running, or making a splash every so often.  Now get out of the bathroom.” 

 

Harry froze in place, briefly debating a denial, or at least showing a hint of backbone with an outright opposition.  But what good would that serve?  If there was one thing he knew intimately, it was the Dark Lord's magic, and magic such as that was not to be defied - not directly. With a dispirited sigh, he stood and pulled open the bathroom door, with perhaps a little more aggression than was merited, glaring mutinously at the tall and dark man, who merely arched a supercilious brow. 

 

 “If you have time enough to spend nearly two hours in the bathroom, without even a single book upon your person, then clearly you aren't being kept busy enough,” the Dark Lord pronounced.  He gave Harry a long probing look, and it was all that Harry could do to not squirm and look even more guilty than he already did. The Dark Lord couldn't know what he was doing, could he?

 

The Dark Lord hummed, his hand against his chin as his thumb brushed his lower lip in contemplation.  The gesture might have looked ordinary on anyone else, but it evinced the Dark Lord’s humanity.  It was also incredibly disconcerting. 

 

 “Bella put forth so much effort to ensure that you would serve me,” the Dark Lord murmured, and Harry wondered if the man knew just how much those words affected him, how much of a stranglehold his mama still had. “We can't have that effort going to waste, can we.  It would hardly do me any good if you remained weak and ignorant.”  Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from protesting the description. “If you are to remain by my side - and it does please me to keep you near - then I will have to train you, to see that you live up to your potential.”

 

He bit down on his check even harder, resenting the warmth that he felt at the words, resenting his own enjoyment of the Dark Lord’s presence, resenting the anticipation that sang in his veins.  “Mr Praos can teach me, My Lord,” Harry obstinately pointed out. “You're very busy.  I can't imagine wasting your time by having you teach me.” 

 

A slow smile crept across the Dark Lord's face, the sort of smile that felt like a reward in and of itself, that softened his mind into a pliable mush, making him into a lowly being who wished only to obey.  Mustering all his strength, Harry ruthlessly beat down the pleasure he felt, not daring to succumb to the man’s charming nature.

 

 “Oh, but I  _ want _ to teach you,” the Dark Lord said. “In fact, once, long ago I even considered teaching at Hogwarts.  But come.  I've no interest in continuing this conversation outside the bathroom door.” 

 

Harry wanted to think that he dragged his feet as he followed, but the truth was, it was an easy thing to follow, far too easy, and Harry had a feeling that he would have to watch himself always, because a man who was capable of winning loyalty with an upturn of his lips, a man who could say exactly what one wanted to hear, was a truly dangerous man indeed.

 

 “If you want me to learn about a certain subject, couldn’t you just tell Mr Praos -  My Lord?  I don’t doubt that he would do everything that you command.” 

 

The timbre of the Dark Lord’s voice changed, became lower and more sibilant, a sound that sent a shiver slithering down his spine.  “One would almost think that you didn’t want me to teach you, Harry.”

 

Harry felt a tight pressure around his guts, reaching up his throat so that it was difficult to breath.  The brush of the Dark Lord’s magic changed from something smooth to something abrasive, almost acid-like in its corrosive threat.  “It’s an honour to be under your tutelage.” That, at least, was no lie.  It simply did not present the entirety of Harry’s feelings.

 

The magic around him softened, returned to its silken state, but when Harry dared a glance up at the Dark Lord, it wasn’t contentment but amusement that he saw on that face, and he knew then that the Dark Lord hadn’t been fooled.  He felt discomfited by the other man’s leniency, felt as if some pain or torment was still creeping just behind his shoulders ready to spring upon him, but the Dark Lord’s moods were strange in their stability, unpredictable because of their new potential predictability.

 

 “What will you teach me, My Lord?” It was strange too, to be having conversations, to be able to ask questions and have them answered.

 

The Dark Lord stopped abruptly, looking down at Harry. “You still have you wand, do you not?  I’ve seen you reaching for your pockets.”

 

 “I have - a wand.”

 

If the man noticed Harry’s choice of phrasing, he did not remark upon it.  Instead: “We shall see what dear Bella has taught you.  A duel, I think, would serve.” And without warning, his wand was out and pointed straight at Harry’s forehead.  The Dark Lord tsked.  “Slow reflexes.  If I had cast, you’d be dead.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened, before he chastised himself for both his emotional display, as well as for being unprepared.  Circumspectly, he pulled out his wand, and took a step back.  It felt like an act of gross impudence to aim his wand at the Dark Lord, and this too must have shown on his face, for the Dark Lord said: “I don’t expect you to hold back.  Indeed, I’d be most displeased were you to presume a need to do so.” He halted, dithering over something. “I shan’t cast nonverbal spells.  Not this time.  But you will have to learn to defend yourself against them soon enough.  Ready?”

 

Harry was tempted to say ‘no.’  How could he ever be ready to duel the Dark Lord?  Instead, he gave the other man a jerky nod.  The Dark Lord nodded in return before uttering a spell in words spoken so quickly that they were near indecipherable, and it was only Harry’s knowledge of Latin that enabled him to understand the word ‘shatter.’  He barely managed to duck the beam of light, calling out: “ _ Stupefy _ ,” and though he was aware of his wand’s limitations, its resistance was much stronger than usual, the magic spurting forth in a pitifully weak ray of red. 

 

He had no time to consider the matter, for another spell was flying at him, and he cried: “ _ Protego _ !”  His shield, at least, was sufficient to deflect the spell, though barely.  Half a second later, and he would have been hit.  He was relieved that his time spent wand-making with Draco had given them both an enthusiasm for learning verbal spells.  Still, if he had the ‘betrayer,’ at least he would have  _ some _ chance.  With his current wand, it was only a matter of time before he was knocked down (though ‘knocked down’ was too kind a term for any of the spells the Dark Lord was throwing).  

 

The next spell easily sliced through his shield, so close that it hit his robes, shearing that section of it into neat ribbons.  The spell after that, dark yellow and focused, he dodged, calling out: “ _ Reducto _ !”  The Dark Lord easily deflected it, and as it hit the wall, it left little more than a dent.  If he had the time to think, he would have been mortified by the appalling weakness of his casting.

 

He followed his spell with a blinding curse, and then a freezing charm, his brows drawn together in frustration at what felt like rebellion from his own wand.  As if sensing the discord of the circumstances, the Dark Lord’s expression was stormy, nearly offended, and he cast a nonverbal spell that wrapped invisible cords around Harry, the touch of the magic as gentle as razor wire, if the stinging wetness all over his skin was anything to go by. 

 

 “What is the meaning of this?” the Dark Lord seethed, stepping forward so that he loomed menacingly over Harry. “You  _ dare  _ to insult me with your pathetic attempts at cursing?  Give me a reason why I shouldn't excoriate every centimeter of your skin, and leave your pitiful remains to bleed out on the floor.”

 

Harry blink rapidly, amazed at himself for not flinching, though the magic that dug into his skin immobilized him as well as any measure of self-control could have done. 

 

 “Well?”

 

 “It’s - my wand.”

 

The Dark Lord's gaze swept downwards, and his magic snatched the offending wand from Harry's fingertips.  His long fingers curved around the branch of aspen, examining the runes, ruthlessly judging the items worth and finding it lacking. “This isn't the one that you had before.”

 

Harry pressed his lips together, recalling that the Dark Lord had used his other wand once, that day that he had returned.  That day that he had  _ failed _ .  Letting his eyelashes guard his gaze, he said: “No, My Lord.” 

 

 “And why, might I ask, are you choosing to use such a weak wand when you have a powerful one at your disposal?”

 

 “I -” As much as he wanted his other wand back, he did not know what the Dark Lord would do if he knew that his Aunt Narcissa had taken it.  The bond they shared might have cooled, but he still retained a fondness for her, and desire to see her free from suffering. “I don’t know where my other wand went.”

 

 “And you could not obtain a better wand to replace it with?  Instead, you use this crude and piddling thing?”

 

 “I  _ made _ that wand,” Harry bit back, an iron edge in his voice.

 

The Dark Lord’s eyebrows swept upwards.  Pointing his wand at one of the mirrors, he narrowed his eyes, and an indigo light burst forth, settling across the mirror’s surface before vanishing.  The Dark Lord strode towards it, peering into the reflective surface, and after a moment of hesitation, Harry followed behind.

 

Not all of the mirrors in the drawing room were enchanted, and Harry was expecting to see only his own reflection.  So, when his eyes met that polished surface, and he saw Holly lying in a pool of her own congealing blood, green eyes glassy as they stared vacantly upwards, he cried out, stumbling back in shock.

 

 “Holly!  I have to - I have to -” without thinking, he sprinted towards the drawing room doors, tugging at the handles, rattling them with frantic urgency transmuted into desperate aggression.

 

 “There’s no need for that.  If I had known you’d turn into a mindless fiend upon seeing the mirror’s image, I would have told you that the image there wasn’t real.”

 

 “I - not real -” his panic had done no favours for his coherency.  “So, Holly - she’s safe?”

 

The Dark Lord narrowed his eyes. “You will need to learn to master your own emotions.  Your behaviour is unseemly if you are to be my chosen acolyte.  But yes, if she remains under the custody of the Light side, then she is safe.”

 

 “Then what the mirror showed -”

 

 “Was only your fears.”

 

His heart was no longer lashing in his chest, and when he realized he still had a hand upon the door handle, he released it, abashed by his display of hysterics.  And yet, if Holly had been in danger - but no, it didn’t bear thinking of.  He forced himself to take measured breaths, composing his expression.

 

 “Your wand is not powerful, but it was surprisingly - responsive to me,” the Dark Lord mused, twisting the branch of aspen in his fingers.

 

Responsive?  Harry wondered if having Bellatrix’s hair as a component of the core could be a reason for the wand’s affinity for the Dark Lord.  His mama had always looked up to the Dark Lord with an impassioned degree of devotion.  The Dark Lord aimed the wand where Harry's  _ reducto _ had left a dent in the wall, and cast his own blasting spell.  The resulting beam of light was the blue of lightning, and with a boom that resounded painfully in his ear drums, the Dark Lord demolished a large section of the wall.

 

 “Hmm.” The Dark Lord considered the wand yet again. “Very responsive.  But limited.”  He became distracted by his own thoughts, and Harry played the statue, letting only the rise and fall of his chest, the blinking of his eyes, attest to his mortal state.  And it was only by counting his breaths, by reminding himself that Holly was safe, that he maintained his equanimity. 

 

The Dark Lord's magic was such that it demanded absolute submission, and though it wasn't in his nature to bow to another, it was still the wisest course of action to let the other man guide his actions.  It might chafe his pride, but it was also expedient. So, when the Dark Lord handed him a wand, Harry took it without question, but even as his fingers grazed against the wood, he could immediately feel that it wasn't his own wand.  It seemed to test him, and as his magic streamed through the core, he could sense the wand’s power, it’s doubt.  It crackled and spit against his own magic, sending out a trickle of flowing purple magic that formed smoke-like whorls.

 

 “My Lord?”

 

 “Do you need the simplest things spelled out?” he answered bitingly. “Try it.”

 

Harry's eyes widened by fraction, before he nodded.  Pointing at one of the sofa cushions, he incanted the levitation charm, and though the wand fought him, fought at the indignity of performing such pitiful magic, it obeyed once Harry exerted his will.  He could immediately sense that this wand was far more powerful than his own, and curiously, far more ambitious.  He thought that it would be like casting with the ‘betrayer,’ but there was no sensation of oiliness; only a satiny sort of allure, an urge to dominate.

 

The Dark Lord's eyes were hooded, inscrutable, before he tipped his head in the barest hint of a nod. “We will duel again.” 

 

 “Yes, my Lord,” he answered, voice like the surface of an undisturbed pool, though he was daunted by what was to come.

 

They took their positions, and Harry watched him with the same wariness as he would watch a nundu, knowing a misstep would be fatal. The Dark Lord cast first, a slight sneer curling his lip, as if he disdained Harry's diffidence, his unwillingness to take the offensive. Even with the Dark Lord's wand, it took the entirety of his skill and reflexes to avoid being hit, to throw spells of his own, and it wasn't long before he was dripping with sweat, muscles searing with heat. He knew that it was inevitable that a spell would find its mark, and when one finally did, it was all that Harry could manage to bite back a scream as the bone in his upper arm shattered. 

 

The Dark Lord lowered his wand, appearance unruffled, as he stepped up to Harry, dark eyes dissecting.  Harry's teeth were clenched, hot surges of piercing pain radiating out from his arm, while sweat dripped down his face, and neck, magicked away once it touched his robes.  His vision flashed black, white and red, but he forced himself to stand as a sentinel, posture erect.

 

There was something like approval in the Dark Lord’s expression.  “You have - potential.  Your repertoire of spells is sadly lacking, and you have a want of control.  But you aren’t entirely useless.” 

 

 “Thank you, My Lord,” he gritted out, the words mechanical and completely removed from the truth.

 

The Dark Lord’s eyes strayed towards Harry's cursed arm, and for a moment, he almost believed that the Dark Lord would heal him.  Instead, the man merely said: “My wand?” before he gave Harry another curt nod and a dismissal.  And with his heart sunk down to his feet, Harry knew that the dismissal was no freedom.  No, if he wanted freedom, he would have to seek it on his own.

 

-o-

 

**Holly**

 

Being able to see Mr Snape elevated Holly's spirits, but with his departure, she was a jumble of ravelled nerves and abraded edges.  She had another meeting with the mind healer, and spent the time with ‘Harry’ once again, remaining stone-faced when the mind healer prodded Holly with questions. She was more grateful to be able to see the facsimile of Harry than she could admit, but the mind healer’s intrusion grated, like a boorish blood traitor at a pure-blood party. 

 

But with Mr Snape gone, she had laid down the bricks that walled up her heart, unwilling to expose herself to new agonies.  If given the choice, she might have chosen to remain in the mindscape that the mind healer’s spell had revealed, but even with her own wand, Holly had been unable to replicate the effect, and when her limbs were itching and seeping blood, she conceded defeat.

 

And now Professor Dumbledore was herding her to a new home, a cottage with forest green shutters and a matching door against white sidings.  Thorny rose bushes surround the exterior of the home, and with the winter weather, those bare tangled branches were a forbidding sight.  She told herself that she felt nothing when Professor Dumbledore knocked on the door, but the quickening of her pulse belied that inner voice.

 

As they waited, Holly could feel Professor Dumbledore's eyes on her, and though she had intended to remain impassive, the incessant prickling on the back of her neck urged her eyes upwards. Those blue eyes, that looked as if they had stolen colour from the sky, were filled with with a compassionate warmth, but trust had never been seeded between them, and no amount of his playing the grandfather could thaw the ice within her.  She would choose the brusqueness of Mr Snape over Professor Dumbledore’s mirthful geniality any day.

 

 “I believe you will like Prudence,” he said, a merry glint in his eyes, and though the words had every potential to be patronizing, they weren’t.

 

Before Holly could respond (not that she would have), the door opened.

 

 “Ah, good day, Prudence!” Professor Dumbledore greeted.

 

 “Hello, Albus.” Dark eyes crinkled, and Prudence gave the professor a subdued smile.

 

 “Prudence, may I introduce Holly Evans, and Holly, this is Prudence Mallowglade.”  

 

Prudence Mallowglade was a plain-faced woman with dark skin, and black hair that appeared to float about her head like a puffy cloud. Unlike Porcia, she did not bubble with energy, nor did she remark on Holly's appearance.  Rather, she introduced herself to Holly, and spoke to her as an adult would.  But no matter how different Prudence might be from Porcia and her family, Holly felt no inclination to lay herself open yet again.

 

They entered the cottage, as Prudence explained that she lived here alone. The cottage was small and homey, with muted colours, and a ceiling of exposed wooden beams. Having been moved from house to house, Holly started to wonder how much one's abode matched a person's personality. And what did it say about Holly that she most preferred the dismal home of Mr Snape? 

 

Prudence and Professor Dumbledore spoke for a while (thankfully, not discussing Holly behind her back, the way one might speak of an ill-behaved hound), and soon the professor was gone. As the door shut behind him, she felt not misery, loneliness, nor dread, but only a hollowness, as if her innards had been scooped out.  The hollowness remained as Prudence turned her full attention to Holly. 

 

 ‘Time to perform?’ The thought appeared, unbidden, in Holly’s mind.  She never thought of herself as much of an actress, nor did she often consider the social masks she had to wear, other than those needed to shield her emotions.  But living with Porcia, Wendell and Clara had taught her that she could not merely be who she was, that it was necessary to behave with care, especially before those who wielded power over her circumstances.

 

 “Let me give you a tour of the house,” Prudence said, and Holly felt a small leap within her, not hope, but perhaps a distant cousin, as Prudence continued to speak to her like an adult.

 

As Prudence led her through the various rooms, Holly's mind wandered as she ruminated on what Prudence would expect of her.  Already, she was tired, and wanted nothing more than to have her own space, so it startled her when the woman said: “This here is your room.  I imagine that you're tired, so if you prefer -” Prudence gave her a tentative smile, as she trailed off.   Holly blinked, mildly taken aback.  She was accustomed to adults who acted as if they knew what was best.  But this new foster parent trod as warily as as a kneazle unwilling to push boundaries.

 

 “I - yes.  I’d prefer to lie down,” Holly said softly.  

 

Prudence nodded, murmuring: “Call me if you need me,” before leaving and giving Holly her space.  It was a pleasant surprise.  But Holly refused to allow anyone past her ramparts.  If she could keep the solicitous Malfoys out, she could do the same with Prudence Mallowglade.  Her experience with Porcia and her family had been a mistake.  It was one that Holly wouldn't repeat.  And if it seemed a cold an empty existence, then at least it wouldn't be a painful one.  She thought she could live with that.

 

-o-

 

**Severus Snape**

 

 “Severus Snape?  I'm Prudence Mallowglade,” said the dark-skinned woman who sat at the table across from him in the Three Broomsticks Inn at Hogsmeade, in the private room away from prying eyes. “Thank you for meeting me.”

 

Severus nodded, and murmured an insincere: “Likewise,” his fingers languidly stroking the tumbler of firewhiskey in his hand.  As for Prudence, she was slowly sipping at her apricot ale.  As he appraised her, Severus had the sense that he, too, was being silently assessed.  They were of an age and he tried to recall whether he had seen her at Hogwarts, but her face wasn't distinctive.  She carried herself with a quiet sort of reticence that brought to mind Ravenclaws.

 

 “You wish to discuss Holly - Evans?” he prodded, when the woman did not speak. 

 

 “Yes.  I've fostered children before, but usually I have time to gather more information on their histories before taking them into my home.  Albus - well - he’s quite the force to be reckoned with -” She smiled wryly.

 

Though Severus had intended to remain on his guard, to stay as objective as possible, if only for Holly's sake, his lips slanted up in a smirk.  ‘Force’ indeed.  He could very well imagine Albus running roughshod over this woman’s objections and concerns, all with that ubiquitous sparkle in his eyes.

 

But just because Prudence Mallowglade did not seem overawed with Albus like so many others were, it did not mean that Severus would be predisposed to like her (Severus wasn’t predisposed to like  _ anyone _ ).  His first concern was with Holly, and after her sojourn with the first foster family had landed her in St Mungo’s, he was inclined to be suspicious of any others who might take her in.  Holly was - different.  And Severus could recognize that Holly's unique nature might not be appreciated by most people. ‘The same way people looked down on me?’ he thought with no little rancor.  But he quickly quelled the thought.  Holly was no longer his responsibility, and it serveed no purpose for him to seek out parallels in their lives. 

 

 “What do you wish to know?” he asked, disclosing nothing with his face and voice.  If there was one thing he had learned during his time with the Dark Lord, it was how to be impenetrable.

 

 “Hmm. There are things that I can find out on my own given time, such as her preferences, but it would still help to know.  I have experience working with children who have suffered - trauma.  I reckon what's most important is knowing what she needs.  Albus had mentioned that Holly stayed with you for a while, and if you had insight -” 

 

His eyebrows lifted slightly at her tendency to end her sentences before they became questions.  If she had been a student, he would have docked House points for the irksome little idiosyncrasy.  But alas, she wasn’t.  Nonetheless, his esteem for the woman increased by a marginal degree for considering Holly's needs. And yet, could he claimed to know Holly's needs?  He who had let weeks pass between them in near silence? 

 

Preferences, however, were easy.  “She has a quick intellect, and a fondness for books, particularly history, magical theory and potions.” (Admittedly, when she was living with him, she was limited to the books he had on hand).  “She values her personal space,” (or was this more of a reflection of himself?)  “She expresses herself most strongly through her art.  But -” his voice lowered into a silken near-whisper, “I’m sure Albus as told you the details?”

 

 “Does Albus ever tell anyone  _ all _ the details?” Prudence replied, deadpan.

 

His lips twitched.  “Touché.” For a moment, he debated whether or not to tell her about Harry. But he didn't know enough about Prudence, and the fact that they were still calling Holly by Evans suggested a continued need for secrecy.  He was tempted, too, to ask about Holly's welfare, but had lived too many years as the sort of man with no apparent attachments.

 

After taking another sip of her apricot ale, she said: “Albus did mention the need to keep her safe.  But -” once again, she left the question hanging, and when Severus didn't volunteer any answer, she continued: “I hope her safety isn't merely a matter of politics. It's a given that I would try to keep children safe, and it would help to know what I'm keeping her safe from -” 

 

Merely politics?   He had known, even in the first war, that children would be used as pawns, but Holly and even Harry were yet so young, and as cynical as he was, the notion still repulsed him. But the Dark Lord could hardly be reduced to merely politics.  Unfortunately, the other man still hadn't made his presence known, which allowed him to gather strength in secrecy.  But the flaring pain of his dark mark suggested that he had called his Death Eater followers to him more than once. 

 

 “The first war may be over, but the sentiments that brought it about have hardly faded,” he replied. “There are those who might seek to use Miss Evans to their advantage.”

 

Prudence pursed her lips in reproof. “I will not allow Holly to be used.”

 

His eyebrow arched yet again, but the words met with his approbation.  Perhaps Albus did know what he was doing after all, and Severus relaxed by a fraction. The next words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “How is she?” 

 

Prudence’s expression softened, but there was a troubled shadow across her dark eyes. “She's very - quiet.  I've given her a few days to settle in, and she prefers to spend most of her time in her room.  I've set ground rules for her - the need for clear boundaries, and all that - but she's never done anything to push against them.  It isn’t that I  _ want _ her to break rules - but it would still reassure me to see her  _ try _ .  It’s healthy to push boundaries.  She's very cautious.  It, well, it's hard to watch someone so young, so guarded.  Looking at her, I feel like she stopped being a child long ago.  But I hope she will give me a chance.  I hope I can earn her regard.”

 

His estimation of this woman rose further.  He had long ago quashed the need to foolishly cling to hope, but he felt a tiny grain of optimism, and chose not to smother it.  “And her art?”

 

 “If it's her preferred form of self-expression, I would never take it away from her. Albus showed me one of her drawings.  It - well I believe it says a lot about Holly.  But it says more about those who had care of her.”

 

Severus tensed, before forcing his muscles to ease. He of all people knew that others could not be blindly trusted.  It would be the height of folly to bristle at this woman’s remarks when she did not know him. And if the circumstances were related to anything other than Holly, he would have expected it, feeling no barb in the words.  It was disquieting to think of the way the child had wriggled her way into his life.  To care was a dangerous thing.  And the best way to keep Holly safe was to once again drape himself in indifference.

 

Injecting disinterest into his tone, he said: “Anything else?  I've much to do today.”

 

Prudence narrowed her eyes. “No.  I won't take up any more of your time.  Thank you.”

 

Severus gave her a terse nod, and watched as she stood to leave. When she was gone, he finished the last of his firewhiskey, and ordered another, before returning to Hogwarts, resigned to feeling alone amidst a castle filled with people.


End file.
